


I Am No Bird

by AngryPirateHusbands



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, Everyone Is Gay, Falling In Love, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-12 11:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 77,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10489719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryPirateHusbands/pseuds/AngryPirateHusbands
Summary: Jane Eyre -based AU





	1. I Am No Liar

**Author's Note:**

> Rated E for later chapters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=igvwvp)  
>   
> 

John had always possessed a strong passion for literature. It was always so quiet and peaceful, so strikingly different from the world that currently existed around him. Being able to transport oneself to another time and place through both the written word and pictures alike, well... It provided a necessary escape from the shadowed corridors of Gateshead Hall, and from the harsh gazes and spiteful acts of the very ones he was supposed to call family. Losing himself in the detailed illustrations of his most cherished book was a comfort he would always cling to. With each turn of the page there was a new and wondrous world awaiting him. While it was a journey he would always undertake alone, there was no sliver of loneliness to be found. In fact it was the exact opposite. It was an adventure. Whether he was listening to the soothing rainfall of the African jungles or walking the green, windswept hillsides of Ireland, it always felt as though it were home.

Now, enveloped by the small window of peace he had been granted, he found that he had walked into his favorite place of all: the ocean. The great expanse of the Atlantic spread out before him, the waves tumbling over themselves as the breeze carried the scent of salt spray to his nostrils. Here it was always warm. Here there was nothing but sea and sand and sky. The blue sky above, always that light shade of a robin's egg, stretched down to meet the clearest water he had ever laid eyes on. How he wished to go there. He had never before seen the ocean, nor felt the warmth of a sun never hidden by the dreary clouds of England. Yet maybe, just maybe, one day he could.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before the sharp bark of a voice broke him from his reverie. It never was.

"Where's the rat gone to now?"

John's breath steeled away inside his chest immediately. He swallowed down the lump forming in his throat as he quickly shifted back deeper into the window seat. This was where he usually stole away to find a moment of gentle quiet. With a house this barren there were very few places to hide, and so the thick drapes that curtained the windows were usually enough to suffice. Not now, however. Just as his back pressed against the wall, his book clutched securely against his chest, a hand reached out for him.

Dufresne's thick fingers fisted themselves in John's curls as he all but yanked him out of his hiding spot. The book tumbled to the floor mere moments before he did, the force of it enough to punch the air from his lungs. He had just begun to recover his bearings when the hard leather of the cover collided with his jaw. Tears welled in his eyes, his teeth biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to silence any cries of pain. He had learned long ago that displaying such signs of weakness would only spur him on.

So instead John simply cradled the side of his cheek as he sat back on his heels. He tasted blood from where his older cousin had struck him. Sure enough, when he pulled his hand back there were drops of red staining his palm. His lip was split and he could feel the blood beginning to drip from his nose. Though his head thrummed, his attention had quickly been drawn to the book strewn on the floor. It was the book Uncle Richard had gifted him before he died. It was one of the few possessions he called his own. It was his escape. And now it's spine was torn, broken from the force of that brutish boy swinging it as if it were a weapon.

Anger burned like a fire in the pit of John's belly. Never before had he fought back against the abuse shown to him time and time again since Uncle Richard's passing. He had grown accustomed to it. And what's more, he was a small and scrawny thing. Now, however, none of that seemed to matter. John was too hurt to think better of what happened next. He didn't remember scrambling back to his feet, didn't remember the pain that came with slamming his fist against his cousin's face. Skin scraping skin and bone crunching against bone. Not just once, not even twice, but repeatedly. He didn't remember Dufresne falling to the ground with a pitiful yelp as he reached up to shield his face. What was normally twisted in that sickeningly smug expression was now contorted in pain.

What John did remember were the arms of the maids curling around his middle to pull him off. He recalled the way his l aunt shouted at him, calling him a miserable whelp and a devil before ordering him to be taken to the Red Room. He remembered the way those words struck him harder than any fist. They always did. They stilled the air in his breast and caused his mind to alight with fear. He kicked wildly, thrashing against the maids who held him as he cried out.

"No, please!" he begged desperately. " _Please_! Not the Red Room! _Not the_ _Red Room_!" Just as before his pleas fell on deaf ears. His two other cousins, Eliza and Georgiana, watched silently from the corner as he was dragged up the stairs. Aunt Reed's hollow footsteps followed close behind. The chamber door shut behind him with a harsh boom, the sound swiftly followed by the turn of a key in the lock. Immediately he grew still. He was on his knees once more, his fingernails biting against the floorboards as he looked up about him. The Red Room was so named for the rich scarlet paint that darkened the walls. This was where his uncle had lain ill until his last breath. Where he still resided now, even in death. He haunted these walls. Sometimes he saw his specter, other times he did not and was allowed to take his punishment in solitude. Unfortunately, today he was not so lucky. He saw him now, sitting high up in the bed and dressed in white. His expression was worn and slack, his eyes vacant, and his skin was as pale as the fresh winter snow. The moment those lips parted, blood began to dribble down his chin. The same exact color that painted the walls. He screamed.

* * *

"Do you know what happens to children when they die, John Silver?"

John stood at the center of the drawing room, his hands firmly at his sides in an effort to settle any nervous fidgetting. He was stationed between his aunt, who was settled on the couch, and a stoutly stranger in black. An imposing figure who had only just arrived, yet had already set forth his clear position of authority. John answered easily enough. "They go to heaven, Sir."

"And when they have let lies slip freely from their tongue?" the man asked. "What then?"

"They burn in hell, Sir." This time John had to swallow lightly before he could find his voice. Aunt Reed's gaze was just as hard and heavy as it had always been, and he fought to stand tall despite the weight of it.

"And what must one do to avoid such a fate?"

Despite himself, a wry smile just barely lifted at the corner of John's lips. "Stay in good health," he answered simply. "Sir."

* * *

The night air was frigid against the exposed skin of his hands and face as he was led away from the carriage. It was the dead of an English winter, and the harsh bite of it seemed only fitting considering the circumstances. John had known where he was being carted off to before he even caught sight of the old wooden sign set beside the road: St. John's Home for Poor Orphan Boys. The place was more of a prison than a schoolhouse, more of a hell than a home where they sought to spread the word of God. The decrepit brick building was at the very center of the nightmarish stories spread across the county. It was a reform school, and as with all such places, it was well-known for its harshness. For the beatings, the cold nights, the sparse food. It was but a place for families to send away their unwanted children. A place for wretches, deserving or no. It seemed only fitting that he had been cast out here now. Since the passing of his parents, not a year after his birth, his uncle had been the only one to stand between him and the all-consuming hatred his aunt held towards him.

John was quiet as the man in black passed him along to two waiting nuns. He blinked, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as they tugged at his cloak and urged him forward. Footsteps echoed as they moved down a dark corridor, led by the light of a lantern that did little to assuage the suffocating weight of the shadows that surrounded them. Still, John couldn't help but allow his gaze to wander. He took in the snow melt that leaked through the stones of the ceiling, the worn shoes that lined the cramped hall, the lack of any warmth or comfort. The sound of stirring sheets and drowsy groans announced the arrival to their destination. Yet it wasn't until his coat and shoes were taken from him that he was coaxed back from his thoughts. A pile of worn clothes were promptly pressed into his arms before he was being urged forward once more.

The bed sheets were thin, the fabric rough enough to scratch his skin, and the rigid mattress was full of lumps. Even so, he did his best to settle down against it and accept the small comfort for what it was. The sound of dripping water accompanied the soft footsteps of the nuns as they made their retreat. Just before the dim light of the lantern disappeared completely, he turned to his side only to see hazelnut eyes peering back at him from beneath ragged brown hair.

John would quickly come to know him as Muldoon.

* * *

Their friendship was one that had taken root without delay. Since the first morning John awoke to the bells tolling, Muldoon wordlessly guided him through what was to become his daily routine. They would rise at the break of dawn to tidy their beds, wash and dress for the day, and file into the main hall for that day's lesson on scripture. Only after an hour of their preaching, and after reciting the sermon without fault at least three times, were they allowed to break for breakfast. Unfortunately, John had always found himself to be quite the unlucky soul. Just as the other boys were standing to make their leave, the same man in black that had brought him here moved before them. At his presence they all stilled in their tracks. When he was called forward by name, his voice nearly echoing off the walls, John felt his chest tighten. Nervously he chanced a glance to Muldoon before moving towards the center of the room.

There the man, who was promptly addressed as Mr. Hornigold, told the others of why he had been brought here. Why he had been cast out by his family, just as these other boys had been. It was because he was a liar, a word that forced him to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out against the accusation. He had a wondrous imagination. One that painted entire worlds that he had never seen, bringing to life details he had never known, and while at times they could get away from him, he was no liar. He was a storyteller at times, yes, but he was not a _liar. Y_ et his aunt had so ruthlessly painted him as such. And so here he was made to stand on a stool before God and his peers, without food or drink, until his very back bowed beneath the weight of his sins. By the time evening came his entire body burned with the strain of standing upright. His head felt heavy and he feared his legs would give out beneath him if he so much as unlocked his knees. Sleeping was an obvious impossibility. He didn't even dare to rest his eyes, not after the first time he had done so only to be roused by the sting of a reed striking against his back. Still, he allowed his mind to wander. He had never much believed in God, and after witnessing the darkness of this place he doubted such a being could truly exist. So instead of thinking on his sins and silently begging for repentance, he thought of the sea. Of the hot sand between his toes and the crisp water rushing against his heels. The imaged what a seagull might sound like as it cried overhead, wings spread as it dived towards the water for fish to fill its belly.

The hunger that pained him at the thought of food drew him from his thoughts moments before the sound of approaching footsteps could. He tilted his chin upward, straightening his form and keeping his head level as the other boys filed past him. Two nuns followed close behind, as they always seemed to. The sound of shoes striking against the stone floor was just beginning to draw farther away when he felt something press into his hand. John couldn't help but jerk at the suddenness of it. With wide eyes he peered down to see that same head of mussed brown hair. Muldoon looked up at him apologetically as he pressed the offering further against his palm. Bread. Slightly stale and cold, but it was food all the same. At the very least, it might help to ease the ache in his belly. John swallowed, trying to ignore the dryness of his mouth as he offered his thanks. The boy only nodded, offering a small half-smile, before retreating to rejoin the others.

Since then their friendship had only flourished. Muldoon had quickly become his confidant, one with whom he shared everything. He told him the stories of where his vivid imagination had taken him, shared with him the book he had managed to keep hidden beneath his coat when he was taken away. It was his sole possession now, but it was the truest treasure he had ever known. And what worlds he wished to describe that he couldn't find within the illustrations of those many pages, he drew out for him himself. Muldoon shared his desires for freedom and adventure, to travel the world and see what sights could be found in even the deepest recesses of the globe. However, he was also much more level-headed than he. He stressed to John the importance of not squandering his time at the orphanage. This was an unfortunate situation they had found themselves in, of that there was no room for debate, but Muldoon pressed that even the worst circumstances could be turned in one's favor. And so he urged him to follow his lead. To keep his head down and his tongue quiet, and to focus on his studies. Though the education here was far from the best society could offer, they had books in abundance. If he worked hard and kept from causing too much trouble, he could perhaps one day become a teacher. And if he were truly diligent, he may even be able to walk from this place with promise of a warm place to live and a decent wage. Despite John's ever present doubt, he promised to try his best.

The next few months passed by at a grueling pace. True to his word John did his upmost to still his tongue, turning his intellect towards his studies of languages, geography, and mathematics, instead of crafting stories and witty remarks. Still, whenever he found himself with a moment to spare, he found himself reverting back to his imagination. When the nuns or tutors weren't present in the late afternoons he would weave seamless stories for the younger children. When the hour grew later and he found himself alone, he would draw out the scenes that came to his mind, using charcoal on the unread and unused pages of his Bible. Eventually, he found himself coming to peace with the lot he had been given. The more he focused on reading and writing, the less he found himself with a cane striking against the back of his neck. He had fallen into the background with Muldoon at his side, and he had never known a truer friend. When they had been released from their lessons for the day, he was at last allowed to read and take to his own studies in peace. Unfortunately, such reprieves could never last.

John awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of coughing, just as he had done for the past fortnight. It seemed as though it were an endless chorus, reaching down the very halls to seek out with invisable hands. With a steadying breath he swallowed back his unease. _It was alright,_ Muldoon had told him. It was common for illness to wreck through this place when the winters were particularly harsh. _It would be alright._ Yet this time when he turned to seek out his friend for comfort, he was instead greeted by the sight of an empty bed.

The cobblestones were cold against his feet as he wandered down the hall, a lantern held out before him to light the path he had already memorized by heart. The children that had already fallen into the throws of fever were being housed in the main hall. The nuns and tutors that were awake to tend to them paid him no mind as he wound between the beds. Their concern rested solely on keeping any more of the sickened children from dying. Five had already passed on within the span of a week. The relief John felt at not spotting Muldoon was brief as he caught sight of candlelight flickering further down the hall. Down there was a small yet ornate room designated for prayer, confession, and deep contemplation of God and his will. As of late, it had come to serve as a place of blessing for those that were closest to death.

John's heart quickened within his chest, his eyes squeezing shut briefly before he steeled his resolve and forced himself to cross the threshold. There, lying in a bed below the shrine of God and paintings of the heavens, was his friend. "There you are..." The smile that tugged at John's lips was forced, the chuckle that followed just as empty as he moved forward. He set the lantern down on the small stool before offering a chunk of bread he had smuggled from dinner.

Muldoon only shook his head. The movement was minute, almost as if it took every once of his strength to offer that much. "Cold," he murmured softly. Those brown eyes fell shut moments later. His normally warm skin was deathly pale. John forced a swallow before pulling aside the heavy quilt that covered him and crawled in alongside him. That thin body lay still as he drew close to share his own warmth, just as they had done on the more frigid nights many times before. A breath of a sigh passed those chapped lips as Muldoon clasped his hand in his own. And that was how they slept, their hands locked in a tight hold, as if doing so could keep the inevitable from separating them.

When John awoke the following morning, he did so slowly. That familiar emptiness that weighed heavily within his chest was unmistakable. Even so, he peered over at Muldoon's still form with wide, unbelieving eyes. He had been pale the night before, but now any trace of color had long receded. His lips were gray, his complexion the same ashen color as the ghost of his uncle. Sure enough, when he reached out to touch his skin it was as cold as ice.

"No." John's plea was but a breath. Tears sprung to his eyes, sliding down and dampening his cheeks as he moved to grasp at his friend almost desperately. " _No_!" he cried. He clung to that hand once more, his knuckles blanching as he shook his shoulder in an effort to rouse him. The nuns that came up beside him went ignored, at least until those hands pulled at him, trying to draw him away. They needed to prepare him for burial along with the others. Still, John cried. " _No_! No, Muldoon, _please_!" He shouldn't have fallen asleep; he shouldn't have let go of his hand. Perhaps if he hadn't Muldoon would still be here. Somehow. Now he was alone, as he was finally forced away, watching the nun fold his arms across his chest in a cross, he never felt so hollow.


	2. The Fog is but a Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=13zbdcz)   
> 

Over the next several years John Silver came to realize that he had grown in many ways. Based off of physical appearance alone, he was barely recognizable. At least to his own eyes. Whenever he happened across his reflection in the pane of a window or the calm surface of a pond, it took him a few moments to realize just what he was looking at. _Who_ he was looking at. He was no longer the meek, scrawny whelp that had lived in Gateshead Hall. Adolescence had been kind to him. Instead he now matched his peers in both height and build, and while he was still thin --they all were--, he was also strong. Not that there was ever a need for it at an orphanage full of God-fearing men, but he would surely now be able to defend himself if necessary. There was no longer precedence for hiding behind the curtains in the drawing room to avoid a beating. Not that that was to say he would eagerly engage himself in a fight. Just as he had grown physically over the years, so too had his quick wit and clever tongue evolved for the better.

His propensity for snide remarks had given way to something far more valuable than a brief sense of satisfaction bought at another's expense, and that was his ability to almost seamlessly manipulate those around him. It was a skill that had taken him several years in order to perfect, yet it had certainly been worth the effort. Now, when combined with that disarming smile that came to him with the same amount of ease as taking a breath, he could craft arguments that would bend the thoughts of those around him in any direction he saw fit. He could get anyone to see anything in a different light if he tried hard enough. It was quite likely that he could even get a priest to question the very existence of God, if he so chose.

Most of the time this talent was reserved for furthering his education. He had always known that he was a rather bright child, but it wasn't until Muldoon pushed him that he realized just what he was capable of. With each passing year, that flitting idea that one could walk away from this place with the promise of a comfortable life and actual wages seemed more and more possible. Soon, it may even be within his grasp. This was something his friend had wanted not just for himself, but for both of them. And so he would keep his head down and still his tongue from causing mischief, at least as much as he was able, and focus on perusing his studies. One day, the life of a teacher may provide the freedom and security he had always wanted. _They_ had always wanted.

For the most part, John had set aside his artistic abilities for now. While he still found himself crafting detailed illustrations of butterflies, birds, and other specimens to further his understanding of biology, the worlds he had often visited as a child were now reserved for the hours of his dreams. Instead, all of his attention had been poured into French, mathematics, lettering and grammar, and other such studies that would provide useful when it came time to advertise. He refused to squander the hope Muldoon had instilled in him. The only subject he did not study was, ironically, the scripture that was so fervently taught by the pastors here. It turned out that his memory was so exact, that he could recite any verse by heart, on command, and without having to attend any of the grueling lectures that filled the day. When paired with his blossoming charisma, it was rather easy to convince the nuns and pastors that scripture was something he lived and breathed. That, surely, this was a sign from God that he should spend those hours not in the cramped main hall with a Bible on his lap, but in the library with his nose in some other book. That he was different, special, and designed for something more.

By age fourteen he was already standing beside the teachers during their daily lessons of reading and writing. Not only did he assist in planning out the curriculum with an ever-lengthening timeline, but he actually tutored some of the children that were experiencing trouble. They always managed to come along beneath his guidance. By age sixteen he was giving his own lessons. While he still helped the other teachers with their classes in languages,  writing, and of course mathematics, once a week he was allowed to give his own lessons on biology. He had convinced his elders that, surely, it was the will of God that his pupils better understand the beauty and nature of the world around them. Similar arguments brought them beneath his thumbnail each and every time. Frankly, he was adored. Or rather, the guise that he projected so effortlessly. Mr. Hornigold seemed to be the only one that could see behind that mask to view the troublesome whelp that still lingered beneath the surface. But no matter. It didn't lessen the way the teachers praised him, the way the younger children clung to him, or even the way the nuns and maids blushed when he flaunted his charm. In fact, it was rather refreshing for someone to see him for what he was: A liar, a pretender. That very thing his Aunt Reed and Hornigold had accused him of being, he had so become.

It seemed only fitting. After all, in a place such as this, every one was out for themselves. It was true that he cared for the younger children, that he sympathized with their plight, but when it came down to it, he was not tutoring and teaching lessons for their benefit. Rather, he was doing it for the sole purpose of honing his own skills and garnering recommendations from his elders for when it came time to find employment elsewhere. He was doing it secure his own freedom. Even in the evening hours when he would sometimes illustrate lavish stories for whatever whelps wished to listen, he did it for his own enjoyment. He reveled in the wonder that shined in their eyes as he made them see the intricate landscapes that painted themselves in his mind. He adored their praise, their attention. And so all he did were for entirely selfish reasons.

Muldoon's untimely death had struck him quite the blow to the chest. Even if he would not admit it, even silently to himself, the loss had helped to shape the man he was now. He was no longer a child beaming with life and hope behind a solemn expression, but the polar opposite. Beneath that warm smile and silver tongue was nothing but cynicism and falsehoods. He had never known a truer friend, and he felt no desire to seek one out. Granted, that is not to say that he had turned his back on such relationships completely. After a few years he came to know a boy a bit older than himself by the name of Billy Manderly. Similar to himself, he was intelligent and lettered, and just like Muldoon, there was nothing but kindness in his heart. However, as their friendship slowly developed, another similarity eventually came to light. That was their shared interest in the touch of another man. It was truly laughable that two of the orphanages' favorites were actually sodomites, perverse sinners. If any of the nuns or pastors found out they would surely faint on the spot.

Needless to say, it was something that required the upmost care and secrecy. Only when the two of them were truly alone were they allowed to share a lingering touch or playful glance. In the cramped institution of St. John's, these opportunities were few and far between. Typically, they were reserved for those occasional trips into town to collect mail and send off the letters penned by their superiors, concerning one matter or another. It was a trip that would be taken by foot whenever the season and fickle weather allowed it. It made it far easier to disappear into the thick trees and shrubbery of the woods for a quick tryst. They had only come close to being discovered once, and that was only because of a twig and the remnants of a crumpled autumn leaf that had clung to John's hair.

Beneath the suspecting gaze of the pastor John dipped his head, clasped his hands before him, and confessed to his sins. That an argument had broken out between them and, by his own flawed hand, it had escalated to a physical confrontation. It was an excuse that worked easily enough, even though his feigned attempt at started a fight with his peer resulted in a swift caning. Still, it was far better than any alternative. At any rate, Billy found it rather amusing that he thought himself capable of starting a fight with him and leaving it with only rumpled clothing and a dirt in his hair.

By the time John turned eighteen he was now a man, both in the eyes of the law and the overseers at the institution. Finally, _finally_ , he could be free of this place. While Billy had chosen long ago to remain here as a teacher, he had always been too attached to the younger children, this was his opportunity to escape. Almost immediately he began advertising his talents as a teacher. Hearty letters of recommendation were provided by any who were solicited, and it wasn't long before he began receiving letters in return. Most were from small towns or estates in need of a tutor. However, none of them captured his interest. At least, not until one arrived that had been sent from a place titled Thornfield Hall. He knew that this would be his next stepping stone before he had even broken the seal of the envelope. This was not due to any magic or mysterious intuition, but rather by the simple fact that the name held no recollection in his memory. That alone showed that this estate, wherever it was, was far from here. That was what he truly wanted, to draw as far away from this accursed place as he possibly could.

Sure enough, the elegant and scrawling script nestled inside appeared most promising. Thornfield Hall was situated outside Whitechapel, a town to the far south of England, and belonged to a Sir James Flint. The person writing to him, signed simply as Max, conveyed they were in need of a teacher for the master's ward, a Miss Abigail Ashe. The promised wage was far more than the others --though still within the realm of reason for such a station--, proving that this estate was in good standing. Immediately he took to the drawing the room to fetch his quill and ink. He had found his golden opportunity.

By the time another week had passed them by, John's newest station was set in stone. His goodbyes with the others at the orphanage were... oddly heartfelt considering his true character that existed beneath his smiling mask. A part of himself would miss the children. For the past few years they had followed around as a cluster of chicks would a mother hen. Fortunately, with Billy here, he trusted they would be alright. And so that tiny sliver of uncertainty was quelled just as soon as it had arisen. His parting words with Billy were far more loaded, though he remembered very little of thew actual exchange. What it came down to was that he would be missed and, with a smug smirk that he rarely wore, Billy assured him that they would certainly meet again. That, and to at least try and keep out of trouble. That last part was humored with a laugh.

* * *

The journey to Thornfield was one that encompassed several days. He wasn't certain if he had spent so much time traveling since he was first carted off to Gateshead Hall to live with his aunt and uncle. As he has only been an infant at the time, this was certainly the longest in memory. Still, the moment he first set eyes on the estate his fatigue and agitation from being cooped up for so long dissipated without a trace. It was still a few bells before midnight, but the combination of the full moon and cloudless sky offered him the perfect view of its impressive silhouette. _Estate_ seemed too trivial a word for a place that was more or less a castle. Then again, having come from a place with only comfortable living, and then a school for orphaned boys, he didn't exactly have a good mark for any accurate comparison.

John felt a smile curl at the edge of his lips as he sat back against the cushions of the carriage. The Bible he had been gifted before his diparture sat open on his lap. Despite the fact that it had only been a matter of days, the pages were already scrawled with various ilustrations of what had caught his eye during the journey. There were various glimpses of nature shaded over the printed scripture. The tall grasses of the moor, the rocky ledges that rose along the path, thick forests... Even a butterfly that had flitted past the window. Now, however, his fingers effortlessly drew the charcoal across the text-laden page to bring to life his first look at Thornfield. The estate sat atop a small hill, a river curling lazily around it before disappearing into some of the tallest trees he had ever seen. By the time he had finished the carriage slowed to a stop. Immediately he closed the book, shoving in into bag he had brought along that held his few other positions, and straightened his collar.

The air was refreshingly crisp against his face. Certainly winter was still biting at the air, it was November after all, but it was no where near as frigid as it had been farther north. Still, that could surely change. John grabbed his suitcase from its place atop the carriage before moving forward up the path. At the entrance he was greeted by a beautiful woman, surely not much older than he, with caramel skin and rich brown hair. There was no delay in her addressing him.

"Ah, bonne soirre Mr. Silver." The perfect of her accent signalled that she had either been born in France, or had spent much of her time there. "Je crios que votre voyage a ete un reconfortant?"

Silver smiled. "Oui, tres certainement," he answered easily. "Merci de me demander, Miss...?"

"Max," she offered. She gave a curt nod of her head then. "Good, so you do speak French. And very well, might I add."

"I appreciate the compliment," John returned politely. He then quirked a brow at the insinuation. "Have you had issues with previous teachers lying about their accomplishments?"

Max scrunched her face as she appeared to think it over, adjusting the shawl that wrapped around her shoulders. "Not exactly, no. But seeing as Miss Abigail has a very remote understanding of English, it is imperative that anyone who is to be her teacher be fluent. I am the only other here that knows French, and I'm afraid I'm far too busy up-keeping this estate to translate back and forth."

"Ah," John answered simply. He then scratched lightly at the back of his neck before treading carefully with his next words. "No disrespect, but you seem rather young to be a housekeeper."

"You seem rather young to be a teacher," Max retorted with a sly smile. "It seems that we both have our strengths. Mine in organization and management, and yours... Well, we've yet to exactly see. Now, come along and I'll show you to your chambers. You must be tired."

John offered a nod before following Max as she led his across the courtyard. The moment she turned her back he allowed his gaze to wander. This place truly was something. Large and, while not exactly ornate, possessed a design that conveyed clear strength. Absolution. He could only imagine what it would look like bathed in sunlight. Tomorrow he would know for certain, and his fingers practically itched in anticipation at the thought of drawing it in greater detail. Just as they were about to disappear into the inner halls, something caught his eye. A single light flickered behind a windowpane at the top of one of the towers.

"Hurry along, Mr. Silver."

The room he had been granted for the duration of his employment here was more than he could have expected. It was small and comely, but by god if it wasn't the best gift he could have been given. For the first time in eight years he had a space to call his own. He had a bed laden with soft sheets, a quilt to keep him warm, and a comfortable mattress. He had a small bookshelf all to his own, one on which he now placed the book given to him by his uncle, as well as his Bible. A sign of a good Christian man to others, but to him a simple sketchbook. He arranged the rest of his belongings, mostly clothing from the reform school, before sitting down at the edge of the bed. Blue eyes closed breifly as he released a steadying breath. He would not be overwhelmed. This was certainly better than he could have anticipated, but the work has yet to begin. Tomorrow he would see just what it was he had entered into. For now, he needed rest. And as he lay back against the sheets, he fell into the most peaceful sleep he had experienced in years.

John awoke at dawn the following morning. Despite the lack of any bells tolling, it had long become a habit to rise at such an early hour. He bathed and dressed in a fresh change of clothes before leaving his quarters to instead meander around the grounds of the estate. Just as he had thought, it was even more impressive without the darkness shrouding his fingers. Despite the gnawing urge to explore, he made sure to keep within the confines of the courtyard and garden. He didn't want to wander too far for fear of getting lost, or not being able to be found when needed. By the time he had gotten a grasp of the layout of the place, the scent of food was wafting from an open window.

When he went to investigate he found himself in the kitchens. There, Max had appeared to have been waiting for him. With a smirk she claimed to know he would come running at the first smell of food. After all, she added with a gesturing tone, he appeared far too thin for his own good. Before John could manage a retort, she interjected and introduced him to their cook, Mr. Gates. He was a cheery older fellow who apparently never ran out of inappropriate jokes to share. After eating a quick breakfast of porridge and tea, she tugged him along to give him a proper tour of the grounds. He was shown the main dining hall, the drawing room, the corner of the estate that housed Mr. Flint's private chambers, though only because they happened to pass it, the library, and the school room where he would be providing instruction to his ward.

That particular room had been spared no expense. There was a wide table with chairs, a window seat that ran alongside the vast bay window aimed towards the river, chalk boards on easels, and a shelf of books and papers. This would certainly do. Max allowed him a few moments to inspect just what resources he had been given before leading him to another, smaller drawing room, where he was finally introduced to his latest pupil. She was definitely a beautiful girl. Pale skill with large, round hazelnut eyes and hair to match. She seemed rather quiet and reserved, but the moment John introduced himself in her native tongue, her entire face lit up. She was quite the bright little thing. Just as curious as he had been as a child, only she still viewed the world through an unhampered lens, just as all children of "proper" blood surely did.

Max coaxed the young girl to return to playing with her dolls, her nursemaid Ms. Mapleton nearby in case she was needed, before urging John along. As they walked, she explained that though she was just as intelligent as her parents, she feared her imagination tended to get away from her at times. John offered a nod but said nothing. At least, until he realized there was one person he had not yet met.

"And Mr. Flint?" he asked curiously.

Max hummed. "The master spends very little time here, actually," she explained as they returned to the main room. "He spends the majority of his days traveling the world. Usually here across Europe, though he has also sailed to the Caribbean several times. Typically, he is only here for a few days out of the year."

John frowned. "He just leaves Miss Abigail alone?"

Max seemed to hesitate slightly before answering. "Truthfully, he does not seem too fond of the child. Though she claims to have known the master for many years, it wasn't until this past year that she came to stay with us."

His brow only furrowed. Each explanation seemed to raise more questions than answers. "Does anyone know who she belongs to."

To this he was only offered a shrug. "Mr. Flint does not care to discuss such personal matters. When you eventually meet him, you will understand."

John couldn't help the chuckle that passed his lips. "You don't seem rather fond of him," he noted. "If I may be so bold as to say such a thing," he quickly added.

Max matched his smile, though it was slight. "He is a difficult man to understand," she admitted. "He is quite rough around the edges and is prone to changes in temperament, but he is also a good master. Mr. Gates has known him far longer than I, and he assures that he has had his share of woes. Not that that is to excuse any rude behavior, though it does explain it." John apparently didn't seem too satisfied with her response. "Again," she assured him, "He is hardly ever here."

* * *

Once again, Max's words had rung true. As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the master of the house was not to be seen. Not a trace. In all honesty, John didn't allow it to give him much concern. Despite his usual tendency to keep to himself, he had quickly become friends with Max. She saw through his mask with an ease he hadn't experienced in a while. Perhaps it was because she too saw things exactly as they were. She was well-read, and sometimes he feared she was far too clever for her own good. It wasn't long before her face began to scrunch up every time he forgot to omit the "miss" from her name. She claimed it to be far too formal. Save for the young Miss Abigail, she insisted that they were all equals here. It was a concept that he was readily willing to accept, especially after a life of being viewed as "less than".

His lessons with Miss Abigail were also proving to be quite fruitful. Just a Max had claimed, she was quite the bright child. She thought before speaking and asked questions any other child her age may not have even thought of. She was polite, respectful, and loved to read. Her skills on the piano were also quite impressive. However, Max had also been correct about how her imagination had a tenancy to run wild. In a way, it likened to his own. It wasn't unusual for John to turn from the blackboard during his lessons to see Abigail's gaze trained out the window. While he would scold her lightly for being so distracted, he could never get more than just a bit frustrated with her. After all, he remembered well how he had been during his youth. And so he was kind and patient, redirecting her with a steady tone and occasionally switching topics to ones that better captured her interest.

It went without saying that he never once raised a hand to her. Not only did the thought of striking a child make his stomach churn, especially after the beatings he himself had suffered, he had never accepted the validity of such "corrective measures". And what's more, he had come to care for her. She was imaginative and bright, and it didn't take long before he began to share with her the stories he had crafted for the children back at the orphanage. Once they had finished their lessons for the day, of course. He also shared with her his illustrations during their lessons on biology and geography, and while she already knew how to play piano, they found themselves teaching each other songs the hadn't known previously. Often she would accompany him on his walks about the grounds in the early evenings before supper. Eventually, John began to recognize that when he smiled in her presence, it was not the hollow one he had spent years perfecting, but rather one that arose from an honest place. The same could be said for Max, and even Mr. Gates. Just as Muldoon had all those years ago, they had quickly reserved a place in his heart where one would normally hold their families close.

One day John tread across the courtyard with unhurried steps, a bundle of letters tucked against his chest. A scarf was wrapped around his shoulders to better guard himself against the chill February air. Despite the thick fog that clung to the hills, these letters needed to be taken into town. The weather had been similar the past several days and so there was no use in waiting for it to pass. Besides, he hadn't had the chance to go to town in several weeks. He could use the fresh air. Just as he was nearing the gate he felt a gloved hand clutch his arm. Turning, his saw Miss Abigail peering up at him.

"Please," she practically begged. "May I come with you, monsieur Silver?"

With a chuckle he shook his head. "As I've told you before, Miss Abigail, I'm afraid not. It's far too long of a walk for you, and even if it weren't, I wouldn't want you to catch cold." A pout pulled at lower lips as he turned her away and urged her to return to Ms. Mapleton. The woman was likely frantic if she had suddenly taken off again. Just as John was preparing to continue of his way, he caught sight of something scarlet waving against the gray clouds blanketing above. His brow furrowed as he squinted slightly. It appeared as though it were a scarf caught in the window at the top of that tower. That same window that was sometimes lit late at night. That same window belonging to a room that Max, and whoever else he happened to ask, had always remained empty. Quickly he shook his head, drawing himself back from his thoughts as he shifted the envelopes in his arms and moved past the gate.

The fog seemed to thicken the further he traveled down into the valley. Even so, he paid it little mind. It served to only heighten the silence that surrounded him. It was quiet and peaceful, soothing. Finally he had a moment to think, become lost within the recesses of his mind and simply daydream. Eventually, though, a sound coaxed him from his reverie. He blinked, slowing to a pause along the trail as he listened for the sound again. When it came next it was louder, much louder. The barking of a dog? Surely the weather was too poor for anyone to be hunting today, and they weren't far enough in the hills for it anyway. What's more, no one in these parts owned a hound. Just as John was finishing his thought a mass of black fur came racing around the bend in the path, cutting through the fog like a knife. The animal barked wildly as it shoved past without slowing down. Though it's side just barely struck against his leg, the force and shock of it was enough to send the letters scattering to the ground.

John swore loudly, glaring after the beast as it disappeared back into the fog. "Fuck," he repeated beneath his breath. The majority of the envelopes had managed to fall into a puddle of mud. Of course. Quickly he stooped down to sweep the dirtied papers into his arms, wiping what ones could be salvaged against the leg of his trousers. So caught up was he in the task that he didn't hear the beating hooves of the approaching horse until it was right upon him. Its whinney pierced through the air, John's chin jerking upwards just in time to see a black stead rear back on its hind legs. His breath caught in his throat as he managed to scramble out of the way before it came back down. Unfortunately, the beast had already startled itself into a fright. The horse reared too far back, shifting unsteadily on its legs before collapsing to its side, causing a pain-filled shout to come from the rider. When the beast struggled its way back to its feet, its master had been left on the ground.

John didn't hesitate before rushing forward. "Are you alright?" he asked.

The rider, a man clad in black, cursed as he grabbed at his ankle. "The _fuck_ were you doing standing there in the middle of the road?" he demanded angrily. He didn't miss the accusation of " _devil_ " as he roughly shrugged off the hand offered to him, instead opting to struggle to feet with little to no grace. He was clearly injured.

John bit his tongue to silence any snide retort. However, he didn't bother masking the sharp glare currently aimed at him. "Your dog ran into me," he answered curtly. "I was merely picking up the papers he had knocked from my hands."

Green eyes, framed by a shock of auburn hair, settled on his face with a piercing intensity. Those depths were full of accusation and undue anger. However, he refused to bend beneath the weight of it. He also didn't miss the suspicion that flashed across the stranger's features as he eyed the letters still on the ground. "Letters," he noted, as if John wasn't aware. Then, "Where are you from?"

"Thornfield," John answered simply. He shooed away the hound that had returned so that he could pick up the letters. They were all but ruined anyway, but still. "It's just a few minutes from here," he continued. "I can get help."

"I don't _need_ help," the man sneered. Despite the harsh tone, the pain that contorted his features told a different story, as did the fact that he was refusing to put any weight on his foot.

"Clearly," John sighed with a slight roll of his eyes. "Well," he then offered, gesturing towards the horse that had just started to settle down several meters away. "There's your horse. Since you don't need any help, you can be on your way."

The man's chin tilted upwards in defiance, his gaze hardening more than he thought possible as he rolled his shoulders back. Yet the moment he put pressure on his injured foot he was barely able to suppress a groan. Despite himself, John felt a smug smirk tug at his lips. This did not escape the other's notice, for the next time he swore he did so at him. "You _shit_ ," he practically snarled. Then, motioning towards the horse, "Fine, bring him here. Quickly now."

John scowled but did as he was told nonetheless. Or at the very least, he tried to. Yet the moment he began to draw close the horse shifted nervously, stamping its hooves against the ground. Another step and he was rearing back once more. Its dark eyes were wide with fright. It was still rather startled by him.

The man sighed loudly behind him. "Come here," he ordered. When John didn't move, unsure if he was speaking to him or the animal, those sharp eyes glared at him once more. "You," he specified with a quick wave of his fingers. "Come here."

John swallowed down his pride, or at least what little was left of it, before moving forward. The moment he drew close enough the man lifted his arm on his injured side so that he could shift beneath him to better support his weight. He smelled of leather, cigars, and shot. Perhaps he was a lord of some sort. After all, it would make sense. Such people were renown for the petty stubbornness he was currently displaying. The man reached out to grab the horse's bridle, shoving the crop into his arms as he shifted his weight to step up and swing into the saddle. He settled down into the leather seat with a huff, righting his hat before taking the crop back from him.

"See what happens when you bewitch a horse?" he accused, batting the dirt and mud from his coat sleeve.

John's lips pursed. "I do apologize, Sir," he laid on thickly. "I was petitioned to curse an old man that was to come down the path. I must have mistaken you for him." If he had so much as blinked, he would have missed the faint smirk that lifted at the corner of his mouth. Yet mere moments later it was gone.

"I'd be careful," the rider warned him then. Despite the threatening words, his tone was softer than it had been before. "The light will soon be fading and there are untold dangers awaiting in the dark. I'd best head home." He didn't wait before releasing a sharp whistle and calling out. "Teach! Come on, boy!" He kicked against the horses sides with his heals, urging it back into a gallop and disappearing into the fog with the hound close on its heels.

* * *

By the time John returned to Thornfield the sun had just begun to settle below the horizon. Fortunately, it turned out that quite a few of the letters were salvageable thanks to the thick cardstock of the envelopes. The ones that had been completely ruined were brought back with him. At the very least, he supposed they could be rewritten and sent out again. Next time, however, he would certainly need to be more careful. The moment he walked into the kitchens he spotted Max flitting about. Her brows were drawn and her lips pursed as she dug through the cupboard, clearly in search of the finer glasses and silverware.

"Max?" he asked almost wearily.

She started slightly. "Oh, John," she sighed. She apparently hadn't noticed that he had come in. "You wouldn't believe it. Mr. Flint has just arrived home. The man never was too keen to give us time to prepare for his arrival. Always shows up right out of the blue..." She shook her head then. "Unfortunately, he is in a rather foul mood at the moment. Apparently he had an accident on the way here, sprained his ankle."

John swallowed down the lump in his throat. "Oh?" he asked, his throat suddenly feeling parched.

"Mhm. The doctor is in the drawing room with him now."

When Max disappeared down the hall with a tray of whiskey, he remained frozen to the spot. Surely that rider had been someone else, a random traveler. _Surely_ his luck wasn't that terrible. Yet when he rounded the corner to find that same gray and black dog lying on the kitchen floor, he was proven wrong once again. With a heavy breath he closed his eyes. _Fuck..._


	3. A Proper Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=14m73ow)  
> 

Several minutes had passed before Max finally returned to the kitchens. When she did she walked in to see John sitting on the wooden floor, leaning back against the cupboards with the dog's head resting heavily in his lap. He scratched at the thick fur behind its ear absentmindedly as he pondered over what was to be his fate. While Max had previously warned him that the master of the house was notably rough-mannered, he hadn't at all excepted the sourly rider to be him. How could he? He hadn't been given so much as a brief description of the man since his arrival here. Surely Max would have provided one should he had asked, but honestly he didn't care. Just as she had said he was never present, and in all honesty he was beginning to wonder if he would ever meet him at all. Well, meet they certainly had, and he wasn't sure how it could have possibly gone any worse. A small, tiny sliver of his mind wished that the horse had actually trampled him.

"Come along now, mon cher. Mr. Flint wishes to meet you."

John started at the sudden voice, the back of his skull actually smacking against the cupboard door as he jerked to look up at her. With a barely audible swear, he winced as he rubbed at the back of his head. "I'm not too certain that's a good idea," he lamented. Despite his words he moved nonetheless, patting the dog's side before climbing to his feet.

Only then did Max appear to take in the whole sight of him, muddied trousers and all. "Your clothes are a mess," she exclaimed with an exasperated sigh. "What--? No, never mind that. Just go change."

"I honestly don't know if that could possibly help," he insisted with a mutter.

Max huffed before shaking her head. "You're changing," she repeated. The finality of her tone clearly left no room for argument. Only after John gave a nod of resignation did she urge him along, but not before motioning towards the dog. "I see you've already become acquainted with--"

"Teach. Yes, I know." When her brow furrowed in confusion John continued. "What exactly did he tell you about his accident?" he asked tentatively.

"That he was tossed from his horse by a... vagrant..." Her gaze hardened then. She then pinched the bridge of her nose with an exasperated sigh. "Please tell me it wasn't you."

John opted not to answer.

* * *

When John entered the main drawing room he had changed into a fresh set of clothing, just as requested. The room was one he never spent much time in without Abigail's insistence and without her close at his side. While it was not overly ornate, it was clearly a room meant for entertaining guests of purer blood than he. Sometimes Abigail would act out scenes with her dolls before the hearth of the fire while he read close by, but usually when they came in here it was for piano lessons. Here there always seemed to be a sense of warmth and comfort, of home. Now, however, it seemed more cold and uninviting than he had ever seen it.

A hearty fire had been brought to life in the hearth and it cast the room in a warm glow. Yet as it was the only source of light, it also caused thick shadows to dance along the walls. Abigail was perched atop the couch with what appeared to be a new dress spread across her lap. A gift, no doubt. Yet his focus had instead been drawn to the high-backed chair set before the fireplace. The man's back was turned towards him and a hand peeked out from behind the chair to lazily turn a half-filled glass of whiskey between his fingers. A cushioned footrest had been pulled close so that he could rest his injured foot. Unfortunately, it seemed that the doctor had already finished up and been on his way. He had hoped the presence of a stranger would provide somewhat of a shield against the man's anger towards him. Alas.

"Monsieur Silver," Abigail beamed excitedly, having suddenly noticed his presence. "Vous etes revenus!"

At the announcement, the rider's --or rather Flint's-- face angles towards him. Just enough to catch a glimpse of his profile and the frown set upon his lips. He took a sip from the glass before calling out to him. "Come here." Though his tone was not as rough as it had been before, it was still stern.

Silently John cursed the girl for drawing his attention as he stepped further into the room. Teach had apparently been following close behind, and course fur tickled against his fingertips as he rushed forward at his master's command. "Oh for fuck's sake, Teach, not you!" the man swore. The dog didn't seem to mind the harsh tone and instead merely curled up at his feet. Yet soon enough, it was _him_ caught beneath the full weight of that disapproving gaze.

John's hands remained lightly clasped behind his back to conceal his nervous fidgeting as those green eyes raked over him. With each passing second the scowl on Flint's face only seemed to deepen. Finally, though, he did him the courtesy of actually speaking. "I had hoped you were lying when you said you were from Thornfield," he muttered. As he spoke that stare never once left his face. Eventually he cleared his throat only to angle a glare over his shoulder to were Max was hovering by the door. "I had asked Max to write for a governess, instead here I see a _boy_."

His jaw twitched beneath the insinuated insult. "I can assure you, Sir, that I am perfectly qualified to provide instruction to your ward."

At that he was given a derisive snort in return. " _Sir_?" Flint mirrored. Once again that breadth of a smirk lifted at the corner of his mouth. "Has 'old man' lost it's clever ring to it, now?" It seemed impossible for a man to seem quite so dangerous when he appeared to be in good humor, yet the master managed it with ease. Those bared teeth likened to that of a starved wolf about to consume its prey.

John's lips parted wordlessly. This was another strange occurrence in and of itself: John Silver with nothing to say. Behind the man he could see Max shaking her head at him, her lips pursed in a tight frown. So far he had been lucky enough to never be the subject of her scorn. However, if he still had a position here at Thornfield after tonight, he was certain he would be in for quite an ear-full. He swallowed down the lump in his throat before finally managing to find his voice.

"Sir, I--"

Flint waved aside the apology before it had even left his lips. "Forgotten," he assured him. Even so that stern countenance remained. His fingers drew over the edge of the now emptied glass as he seemed to ponder over his next words. "Max has already assured me of your accomplishments," he explained rather begrudgingly, "and Miss Abigail here has spoken nothing but kind words about you." John visibly relaxed at the assurance, and while this did not go unnoticed by the other, he was grateful that it went without further comment. "Go on, then," Flint pressed after a moment as he shifted in his seat. His thumb slowly rotated a ring settled on his forefinger. "Tell me of yourself."

A brow quirked slightly. "What is it you wish to know?"

Flint sighed, gesturing vaguely with his hand before presenting his own question. "Where are you from? Where is it that you received your schooling?"

"St. John's Home for Poor Orphan Boy's.. Sir."

The man nodded slowly. "Impressive," he noted quietly, "To be so gifted despite coming from such a place."

The muscle in John's cheek twitched. It seemed now that he was purposefully trying to insult him. "I believe the two to be unrelated," he answered with that practiced, reserved tone.

"Clearly. And how long were you there?"

"Eight years."

"Family?"

That was when John found himself hesitating. "An aunt and three cousins," he answered after a moment.

Now it was his employer's turn to raise a brow. "Why is it you did not go to live with them?"

"They did not want me, Sir."

Flint hummed, his eyes briefly flitting towards his ward. His knuckles raised to drag against the stubble darkening his chin as he thought. "Very well," he sighed after a moment. "Enough of such matters." Then, those eyes finding his own once more, "Mlle Abagail et Max que tous les deux m'assurent que vous parlez Francais impeccable."

John couldn't help but smile slightly at the way he was being tested once again. "Oui Monsieur. Je crois moi-meme d'etre tout a fait couramment."

"Impressive," he murmured with a nod. This time he actually did seem to be rather impressed, and perhaps even pleased. "They taught you this at the institution?"

"No, Sir. I learned from reading books."

"Hm. I've also been told that you draw."

"Yes."

"That you've been teaching the young Miss Abigail new songs to play on the piano."

"Yes, Sir."

The man's chin tilted slightly, his gaze stern as he searched his face. "And telling wild stories from across the globe, from places where you have surely never been."

Again, John felt himself grow slightly tense and he fought against it. "Only once the day's lessons have been completed, yes. I believe imagination is something to be valued and cultivated, especially in children... Sir."

Flint didn't seem too overly convinced by his reasoning. He was not angry as the pastors and nuns from the orphanage had been, but merely skeptical. "As long as it doesn't interfere with her studies," he pressed.

"I wouldn't dream of allowing that, Sir."

The man seemed content enough for now, though he didn't know for sure until that hand waved him off. "Enough, that'll do for now," Flint finally groused. "I've tired of this." It seemed his earlier ill temperament was beginning to return. "Get Miss Abigail to bed. Now, if you please."

"Of course," Max resigned as she moved forward to gently rouse the child that had begun to fall asleep. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes as that smile slowly returned to her lips.

Before she could leave the room, Abigail pulled away from the hand that held hers to approach her caretaker. "Thank you for the gift, Mr. Flint," she smiled, the accent thick in her voice. "C'est tres joli!" She then leaned across the arm of the chair to place a kiss atop his cheek.

John didn't miss the way Flint's jaw locked into place, the way his head turned away from her moments before those lips touched his cheek. He didn't seem annoyed or angry, at least not exactly. Rather, there was something else deep within the depths of his expression. Sorrow? He was pulled back from his thoughts the moment Abigail followed Max back out into the hall and those eyes had raised to meet his once more.

"Goodnight, Sir," John murmured as he excused himself. He wanted to get out of his sight as quickly as possible, just incase he decided to change his mind about maintaining his employment here. Just as he was disappearing up the stairs he heard the rough, "By the way, my ankle hurts the blazes!" that was snapped after him. He continued forward without another word.

It wasn't until Abigail was settled in bed with the door shut behind them that Max finally spoke to him. "I swear, John," she huffed with a shake of her head. "Did you honestly have to insult Mr. Flint by calling him 'old man'? He's hardly thirty years of age!"

"Actually," John reasoned cautiously, "I called him 'an' old man." When Max's hard expression didn't soften he sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I honestly thought he was a simple traveling stranger, and what's more, he's the one who started it."

Max rolled her eyes with dissatisfaction. "Honestly, mon cher" she tsked. "I thought reform schools were well-known for their beatings. Clearly, they didn't hit you _enough_."

John couldn't help his wry smile. "I'll apologize properly tomorrow," he assured her gently.

* * *

Unfortunately for Max, John had refused to specify exactly _when_ such an apology was to take place. The moment the staff had broken from breakfast he threw himself straight into his duties for the day. He carried out his lessons on English and mathematics with Miss Abigail before retreating to the grounds for their discussion on biology. As the weather had temporarily cleared up, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. Additionally, it made it a rather simple feat to avoid both Max and the master of the house. For all he was concerned, it would be wise to avoid the man altogether until he disappeared on another one of his trips. Apologies had never been his strong suite, especially when he didn't feel that they were actually warranted. Besides, based on his past experience with those possessing "better" blood, if Flint had been irate enough about the remark to desire an apology, he would have demanded it.

Once their lessons were finished for the day, John escorted the young miss to the smaller drawing room to return to Ms. Mapleton's care. At her insistence, he promised to practice the piano with her after dinner. For now, he wished to hide himself in the library. He gathered Flint would either be in the drawing room or off to town, tossing coins here and there like one would throw seed to the birds, and Max was far too busy at the moment to find and corner him amongst the shelves. Even during his time spent at the orphanage, their small corner of bookshelves had served as his hiding place, his retreat. There it was safe, quiet, and secluded. The one here differed only in its vast size. It was certainly a book collection befitting such a large estate. In fact, it was easily the largest library he had ever seen, and likely the most impressive he ever would. It was roughly the same size as the main drawing room, and was lined with mahogany bookcases that extended from the floor to a ceiling that far outreached the stretch of his hand. A round table sat at the very center, while the large bay window to the south had its own cushioned nook.

It had easily become his favorite spot since he had first arrived here. None of the other servants seemed too keen for reading, at least not as much as he, and so he usually had the space all to himself. He could wonder among the shelves in peace, sometimes simply trailing his fingers against the leather bindings, both worn and pristine. It hadn't taken him long to discover just how meticulously the collection had been organized. Truly, he had never seen anything like it. They seemed to be separated by fiction and non fiction, and then further into classes. Languages, the various sciences, travel logs, as well as adventures, mysteries, romances, tragedies, and poems... It seemed that there was everything.

Today he seemed perfectly content in stealing away a little bit of everything. He had already grabbed a few texts on the Caribbean and sailing, one on Ireland, and even a few random pieces of fiction. He walked the shelves slowly, stopping every so often when he found one that caught his eye, and balanced the growing stack of books against his arm and the shelf as he flipped through it. More often than naught, he ended up placing whatever text at the top of the stack instead of returning it to the shelf. He was a quick reader, and he could always return it later if it turned out to be dull. When the doorknob turned, John released a sigh, but kept his eyes trained on the pages he was currently flipping through. Apparently Max had finally come looking for him.

"I told you before, I--" John stopped midsentence. The moment he glanced up he saw that it was not Max that had intruded, but Flint. Quickly his mouth snapped shut, the precarious stack of books nearly toppling from his arms and onto the floor. Slightly flustered, he set to straighten his hold on them. "Uhm."

"Come with me, if you please, Mr. Silver," Flint spoke simply. The man appeared to have a knack for giving orders in a way that made it seem as though it were a friendly request. Still, the resolution of his tone made him obey either way.

John carefully set the stacked volumes atop a table before following him out the library and down the hall. All the way, he couldn't help his mounting unease. Though the library was situated in the corner of the estate that housed his more private chambers, such as his bedroom and study, the others had assured him that he was permitted in there. Had they been wrong? Or was he wanted for some other reason? By the time they reached the end of the hall, John's expression had returned to its practiced mask. Still, he couldn't help but lightly swallow when the door was held open and he was ushered inside. It was his study.

A large desk sat not far from a window that extended across the wall. Its surface was littered with an assortment of papers, some of which he could just barely make out as maps and other charts beneath the writing scrawled across their surface. The room was certainly smaller than the library but held several bookshelves nonetheless. Many held an assortment of texts, others provided a home for stuffed animals and display cases with ornate butterflies, beetles, and other bugs. Not to mention a collection of other similar curiosities. He saw several globes of various sizes, a horn from some type of animal, and even a few perfectly kept animal skulls.

"Sit." This time it certainly wasn't a question. Doing as he was told, John took a seat at the opposite side of his desk and watched with mild curiosity as Flint stepped over to one of his larger bookshelves. "You like to read," he noted simply.

"Yes, Sir."

The man hummed as he appeared to inspect the bindings of several texts before finally plucking one from the shelf. "Your favorites?"

"I don't believe I have any favorites, Sir," he answered honestly. He treaded carefully with his words, not exactly certain what was wanted from him at this point. Based off of his tone alone he wasn't angry with him. At least not at this point. So what, then?

Flint scoffed lightly then. "No favorites," he repeated beneath his breath. A sigh. "Alright then, Mr. Silver. Do you at least know whether you prefer fiction or non-fiction?"

"Non-fiction, Sir."

When the man finally turned to him his mouth was twisted downward in a frown. "Yes, Sir. No, Sir," he mimicked bitingly and with a harsh gaze. "Sir, Sir, _Sir_. Must you tack that onto the end of every sentence?"

John bit down on the inside of his cheek to still his flippant tongue. "I apologize," he offered simply after a moment. "Force of habit, I'm afraid."

"Mmph."

"Did you... require me for something?" John finally wondered after several moments of silence.

"Not particularly, no," Flint confessed gruffly as he turned through a few pages of the book he had selected. "I merely seek to better understand those in my employ. As today has been rather grueling for myself and you were not otherwise engaged, it seemed like there was no better opportunity." Those eyes then snapped upwards as he shut the book and wandered closer. Despite the attempted innocence behind his words, his expression conveyed a much different story. He was studying him, seeking to read something in his face, his eyes, though he wasn't exactly sure what. Though John began to grow annoyed at the fact, he swiftly realized that this was likely how he inspected others when he first met him. Though he was certainly far more subtle about it.

"You don't trust me" he dared to wonder.

Brows furrowed slightly as Flint's tongue reached out to wet his lower lip. "I must admit I am made curious by you," he answered vaguely as he turned his attention back towards the shelf. "It's strange to find one so young driven to the profession of a teacher."

"To be perfectly honest, I hadn't much of a choice. Orphanages don't exactly provide opportunities to learn any other useful trade."

Flint merely hummed. "Have you read Marcus Aurelia's  _Meditations_?" he then asked, side-stepping his explanation entirely.

"I'm afraid not."

Without offering another word Flint stepped towards him, holding out a red leather-bound book that appeared as though it'd never been used. Though John accepted it, he also looked up at him questioningly.

"Give it a read," he suggested gently. The frown had gone from his features, giving rise to an expression that even he couldn't place. Now that he was closer, he could better see the flecks of brown among the green of his eyes. The slight scruff that had existed just yesterday had disappeared, his face now clean-shaven save for the sideburns that touched the edge of his jaw. "Once you've finished it, perhaps you can share your thoughts on it."

Still uncertain, John offered a minute nod before being excused moments later.

* * *

It had only taken John a matter of days to finish reading through the book that had been given to him. During that time, Flint had been all but scarce. Then again, based off what he had heard of the man, that wasn't exactly unusual. To his surprise, he had rather enjoyed the text. It was certainly different from the factual books he normally immersed himself in, yet it brimmed with knowledge of its own sort. It was deep, philosophical. Something that had him thinking over a variety of matters far after he had closed the cover. If this was one of the master's favorites, he could certainly see why. Even now, excerpts from its pages flowed through his mind with ease. It was like poetry, only not quite. It fascinated him.

John's footsteps padded softly against the floorboards as he made his way down the hall. For the first time since arriving here, he found that he couldn't sleep. Not from some nightmare or reliving of a horrid memory, such as had been the reason back at the orphanage, rather sleep simply would not come to him. And so he had thought it a good idea to come down to the kitchens for a cup of tea. Perhaps that would relax him enough to make his eyes grow heavy. He wasn't overly surprised to see candlelight flickering into the hall from the kitchens. It wasn't uncustomary for Max to stay up late to drink tea, chamomile was her favorite, and simply enjoy the silence the night allowed. It gave her time to herself, to organize thoughts that otherwise couldn't be bothered over the course of the day. Yet when he rounded the corner, once more it was Flint that was there in her place.

The man sat at the small table beside the fire, a book spread open before him. The sight itself wasn't unusual. What was unusual was that he was doing it here, in what was more or less the servants' quarters. He had a study, a library, and a drawing room, yet he had decided to come here of all places? When he came back from his thoughts those green eyes were peering up at him.

"Couldn't sleep," Flint muttered, answering his silent question before moving on to answer the others that were brewing without provocation. "Came down for a drink and Max was already here with a fire lit. Didn't make much sense to go elsewhere." As he spoke he took a small sip from the cup, a simple mug, set beside him. He was dressed in a plain white cotton shirt and dark trousers that reached just below his knees. This was certainly the most casual dress he had ever seen on a man of his station. In fact, at the moment, he didn't appear all that different from himself. Which was, of course, a dangerous thought.

"What of Max?" he asked, ignoring the other mess of thoughts berating his mind.

"After attempting needlepoint, she got rather angry and retired to bed, swearing and all. Certainly doesn't seem as calming an activity as most women claim it to be." All the while he spoke, his eyes never left the pages in front of him.

"Ah," John answered simply after a moment. He wandered over to the kettle and, finding there was still some hot water left, went about making his own cup of tea. Orange with honey. Normally he would find himself on edge with the man this close, but considering the circumstances, he felt a bit more comfortable than he usually allowed. Again, these thoughts were promptly snuffed out. "I finished the book you gave me," he ventured, poking at the sachet of tea leaves with a spoon.

"Oh?"

John nodded before continuing to quote one of his favorite excerpts with ease. "Time is like a river made up of the events which happen, and a violent stream. For as soon as a thing has been seen, it is carried away, and another comes in its place, and this will be carried away too."

This at last caught the man's attention and Flint's gaze lifted to meet his own. Slowly, with a slight smirk on his lips, he nodded his approval.

"Why did you give me that book, Sir?" he couldn't help but ask.

"It's a simple method of judging one's character," Flint answered simply, once again rotating the ring on his finger. A nervous tick, perhaps? "Whether or not they chose to read it at all says a lot about their value of literature or physiology as a whole. Then the quote they chose to share, if at all, gives insight as to their state of mind..."

"I see, Sir."

" _Sir_?" Flint punctuated.

John chuckled. "Sorry... Sir."

The man huffed slightly as he shook his head. Still, his features seemed rather relaxed. "Has anyone ever informed you that you have a smart mouth, Mr. Silver?"

"Almost exclusively."

Flint shook his head with feigned exasperation. Even so, the upward tilt at the corner of his mouth was quite telling. Soon he had finished the rest of his tea and closed the text he had been reading. _The Odyssey_ could be seen scrawled across the worn leather cover in rolling script. "Goodnight, John," he then offered as he moved past him, apparently resolved to return to his own chambers.


	4. Butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2wphsf6)   
> 

_John._

Several days had come and gone since that night down in the kitchens, yet even so the way John's name had so effortlessly fallen from the master's lips rung in his ear like a soft echo. He had noticed early on how Mr. Flint often referred to some of those in his employ by their first name. The cook Mr. Gates and his housekeeper Max, certainly, but also the maid Idelle and his accountant, Jack, just to name a few. There was also Howell, the physician, who he had only met just recently when he happened to stop by to check on the state of his ankle. Most others were addressed formally or not at all. Even his own ward, Miss Abigial, was not spoken to without that distancing title of "miss" placed before it. That is, on the rare occasion when he spoke to her at all.

But him? For the short time he's known the man he had only been called Mr. Silver, and more often than naught his tone held that familiar sharp, cross edge to it. But not that night. That night as Flint read by the fire, his eyes searching the pages as if the ink scrawled across them held some secret, it was almost as if they were two equals. Two men, both with a seemingly matched fondness for literature, sharing a civil and almost friendly conversation. Yet in truth, it had merely been a servant seeking a late cup of tea only to stumble across his employer in one of the last places a wealthy man would normally be seen, and still somehow feeling as though it were he intruding on _him_.

_John._

He tried not to think much of it, truly he did. It was likely nothing more a simple slip of the tongue. An honest mistake that was only encouraged by the lateness of the hour. As the days seemed to go by, this thought was swiftly given credence. Not once did Mr. Flint again refer to him by name. In fact, John soon found himself trying to ignore the faint sense of disappointment that stemmed from this. As to why such feelings existed in the first place, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it came with that feeling of worth that had arisen from their short exchange that night. That a lord such as he could actually value his thoughts and opinions... It had been a curious experience to say the least. All those years ago when he had first been cast out by what remained of his family, Muldoon had viewed him as his equal. He made him feel as though he belonged, as though he were family. So too had Billy after several years of only sharing passing glances and innocent touches. Now it was Max that had opened up her arms to him and given him a place to call home. This was something he appreciated far more than he could ever allow himself to admit. Even so, to be welcomed by ones such as himself was vastly different than to be seen as an equal by someone possessing "good" blood. The thought that Mr. Flint could ever possibly see him as such was a dangerous thought at best.

So John did what he has always done best: He suppressed the troublesome thoughts by throwing himself into his duties, both in terms of teaching Miss Abigail and furthering his own passions to later put to use. His position here was far too valuable to possibly jeopardize with the notion that he could ever be seen as something more; in any context. And so their talks of literature went forgotten, as did the hope that such discussions would ever continue. Instead he focused on furthering Abigail's education, specifically her grasp of English, and planning out future lessons. In his spare time he did his upmost to avoid crossing the master's path. It worked easily enough. The young girl was absolutely brimming with questions about anything and everything. She was such a bright child, one that seemed genuinely interested in learning about the world around her. She also shared many tales brought about by her colorful imagination. Most of these stories revolved around a fantome, a ghost, that supposedly wandered the halls late at night, humming a song as she caused mischief. While quite a dark subject for a girl so young, John had found her stories amusing nonetheless. All in all, his time with her served well to otherwise occupy his mind.

However, there were times during their various lessons in which John couldn't help but feel as though they weren't alone. Not that they were being haunted in some supernatural sense, of course, but rather something that was perhaps far more nerve-wracking: And that was a one Mr. Flint checking up on Abigail's progress. Sure enough, one day John happened to catch the man peering in on them. When he turned away from the chalkboard one afternoon he caught a glimpse of him standing beside the door frame with that usual even expression on his face. Before John could even utter a word he was gone. He couldn't exactly blame him for doubting his skill, truly. He knew he was rather young to be such an accomplished teacher, let alone one that had immediately started advertising instead of remaining at the orphanage for several years, as most did. In any case, he wasn't bothered by it. After all he had spent his entire life being underestimated, scrutinized, and doubted. It was nothing unusual. Though after the second time he caught the master listening in, several days later during a piano lesson, it did give raise to a small question.

"Didn't you say that Mr. Flint was typically only here for a couple weeks out of the year?" John asked Max one night. The two of them were gathered around the hearth in the kitchen, simply enjoying the quiet. Hours had passed since the rest of the servants had retired for the evening. Idelle had joined them not too long ago, and the two woman were now encompassed by their embroidery.

Max hummed in response. "I did," she agreed after a moment, her brow furrowed as she remained focused on her work. "However, he usually isn't unsaddled by a moron standing in the middle of the road."

Idelle laughed, the outburst causing Silver to angle a glare in her direction. "I don't know what it was he told you," he refuted matter of factually, "But I assure you, it wasn't my fault."

"That's what every moron says, mon chere."

Another laugh.

"In any case, I believe Mr. Howell encouraged him to take several weeks' rest from riding, so I'd get used to his presence, if I were you."

Silver shrugged as he turned the page of his book that laid open on the table, _Don Quixote_. It was the latest volume to be borrowed from the estate's massive library. And just as with _Meditations,_ Mr. Flint had personally recommended it. "He actually isn't that bad," he murmured. "A little rough around the edges like you said, but... What?" When Silver had been met with silence, he glanced up to see the two women sharing quite the look.

"Mr. Flint must have taken to you, if that's all you have to say."

"I believe the last governess we had left in tears before the month was out," Idelle added. "Not everyone can weather his... Personality."

"Thick skin," Silver explained with a meager shrug. "I've suffered people far worse." 

This managed to coax a smile even from Max as they returned to comfortable silence. Before long, however, the embroidery became too much and Max set it aside with an angry huff. Only then did she notice the way he was fidgeting with the corner of the page.

"Something else on your mind?" she sighed.

Silver hesitated slightly. "There's no lady of the house?" he asked, careful.

Max shook her head, her eyes watching him. "No.."

"Has he ever been married? Is he widowed? I understand that his... manners are quite rough, but surely he must have suitors. Especially with an estate as fine as this?" While the master was certainly not the old man he had teased him of being, it still seemed rather unusual for a man of such wealth to be unmarried, sour disposition or no.

Once again Max and Idelle exchanged a knowing look that he couldn't quite place. Just as her mouth opened, though, Max interrupted before she could get a single word out.

"Be careful, John," Max warned thoughtfully. " _Curiosity killed the cat_ is a saying that holds much truth, especially here. It would do well to keep your head down and your questions silent."

Though a frown pulled at the John's lips, he nodded nonetheless. He had gotten to know Max well enough to trust her judgement. And so just as Muldoon had advised him all those years ago, he would be seen but not heard, just as one such as him ought to be. 

* * *

Despite John's best efforts, the weight of Max's warning had only strengthened his own curiosity on the matter. It was a sickness, truly. Long ago he had learned that every secret held an opportunity deep within it, and with all such things they must be seized with both hands. Secrets held a power that should never be underestimated. Even if he had no plans to bend such knowledge to serve his own interests, it did little to assuage his natural curiosity. So with each passing day his imagination brewed new theories and ideas. As he knew very little about the man, most of these were not based on facts and were merely an outlet for his imagination to run rampant in his spare time.

However, he did take her advice to heart and continued to pass Flint by without pressing beyond his bounds as a servant. It proved easy enough, considering the man still seemed just as determined to avoid him. Very few words were exchanged between the two of them save for their thoughts on whatever piece of literature they were currently reading, and even then it was only in passing. To his surprise, Flint was quite well-read. Though his aunt and cousins certainly weren't aristocrats, he doubted any of them had ever actually cracked open a book. Just as most nobles did, or so he had heard, they thought such activities were beneath them. In truth, it was a little surprising that someone so well-traveled still sought to escape within ink-laden pages.

In any case, while Flint may have been resolved to steer clear of his company, Teach certainly was not. Whenever the mutt wasn't following his master or lying at his feet, he was practically sutured to his side. He slept beneath the table in the schoolroom or beside the oak piano bench during their lessons, and never wandered off too far. Abigail adored the beast, and even he couldn't find himself to mind the added company. It proved to be rather comforting during his usual secluded walks about the grounds, both in the early mornings and later when he was done with his duties for the day. That is until it began pawing at his door in the middle of the night. Soon it wasn't unusual for John to awaken to the racket of claws scratching against the wood, only for Teach to then disappear down the halls once his master's voice began calling out to him. Yet even then he couldn't be too cross with him, as he had become another addition to his ever-growing family. Besides, it felt nice to be wanted. Even if it was by a dog.

A little over a week had gone by before John once again found himself engaged in an actual conversation with Flint. Unfortunately, as had been the case the first time, the circumstances were less than ideal. One day the weather proved to be quite pleasant for late February. The sun was shining high in the sky that, for once, was nearly void of clouds. To best take advantage of the warmer weather, the master proposed John conduct his biology lesson with Abigail outside. This was something he had been wanting to do for a while and so he complied without any trace of hesitance, grabbing what books and materials he required before ushering Abigail outside. She skipped lazily ahead of him with Teach close at her side. Flint followed behind him along with Ms. Mapleton, Max, and Idelle, who also wished to enjoy some fresh air and time to stretch their legs. Then again, he was certain Flint merely wished to look in on another lesson.

All in all, the afternoon passed by without incident. John led Abigail down to the river that curled along the estate to show her the types of fish, toads, passing birds, and insects that called it home. Unlike most little girls of her age and upbringing, she saw no qualm in getting her hands dirty. She picked up rocks alongside the brook to inspect the different types of moss and algae, prodded along the reeds to look at the various plants, and even held a frog in her palm until it decided to leap back into the water. John did grow a bit anxious when she began to pull off her shoes and stockings so that she could wade into the shallow edge of the brook, but based on the faint smile that graced Flint's lips, he didn't seem concerned about her muddying her clothes. Though Idelle did cast him a harsh look for the added work she would have later on.

Eventually, though, Abigail began to grow somewhat disinterested. "Monsieur Silver, none of these are as beautiful as the ones in your book," she sighed, careful as she returned a beetle to the tree branch she had collected it from. "Where are the brilliant butterflies with green and purple wings? The ones as big as your hand and with great, long tails?"

At this Flint arched a brow. "I do not believe such things exist in nature," he noted as he glanced up from the book propped on his knee.

"No, the ones that Monsieur Silver's paints," she beamed, "They are so magnifique, surely they are real!" As she spoke she moved to grab the bible from Silver's satchel, the one he always carried with him not to read, but to fill with various paintings and designs.

"Miss Abigail, please don't," Silver struggled, his chest tightening the moment the book came into view. Unfortunately his plea went ignored and moments later the man held the worn testament in his hands.

Flint opened the front cover without pause and continued to slowly turn through the pages. His expression remained an unreadable one as he peered down at the landscapes, birds, and butterflies that had been painted over the inked pages. Eventually though, those piercing green eyes angled upwards once more and his brow was arched.

"These are yours, Mr. Silver?" he asked. Unfortunately, his tone was just as difficult to decipher.

John swallowed down the lump that had developed in his throat. "Yes, Sir."

"Do you usually misuse the holy text in such a manner?"

"..Yes, Sir," John answered honestly after a brief pause. His fingers fidgeted by his side as he awaited what was to come. Defacing religious literature was an act that would require punishment. He remembered well how the nuns at the orphanage had struck him across the face with a reed the first time he had been caught. Even now he felt the angry welt on his cheek.

Yet Flint did not move to strike out at him, verbal or otherwise. Instead he merely offered a minute nod before closing the volume and holding it out towards him. "You are quite talented," he noted gently.

John couldn't help the hesitation as he accepted the leather volume and held it close to his chest. "Is that all, Sir?" he questioned. He paid no attention to the compliment. Not out of rudeness, of course, but because all he could focus on was being reprimanded as he had been before.

"Be at ease, Mr. Silver," Flint assured him. "I am far from a good Christian, or even a good man, if I am to be completely honest. What you decide to do with your personal property is no concern of mine. Just refrain from drawing in the books from my library, and we will have no qualm."

John nodded slowly. "Of course," he murmured as he sought to calm his racing heart. He was still in quite a state of disbelief, yet when he glanced over at Idelle he saw the woman smirking over at him. As to exactly why, he wasn't certain. Perhaps it was the way he had been so effortlessly unhinged instead of standing tall with feigned confidence and a practiced smile. Perhaps it was that she too had expected to be entertained by a harsh scolding. Or perhaps it had arisen from the words Mr. Flint had actually spoken: _I am far from a good Christian, or even a good man._

Whatever the cause, his thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sharp words that met his ear. "Abigail," Flint spoke sternly. "It is rather rude to mess with someone's belongings without their permission. Apologize." He then motioned impatiently with his hand. "Now, if you please."

Miss Abigail seemed positively aghast. Not by the scolding she had just received, but apparently by the consideration that she had offended John in any way. "Monsieur Silver, je suis tellement desole!" she rushed.

"In English," Flint corrected her, his gaze once again having returned to the text that rested on his knee.

"Uhm.." Abigail struggled. "I am so very sorry, Monsieur Silver," she apologized vehemently. "I did not wish to, ah, offend you."

The sight of those large brown eyes nearly broke his heart. "It's quite alright, Miss Abigail," John assured her. "Think nothing of it." Then, realizing that Mr. Flint had perhaps intended for this to be a harsh lesson on manners, added, "I appreciate and accept your apology."

At this Abigail beamed and rushed forward to hug him around his middle. John all but jumped at the sudden contact. He had never been much of a touchy-feely person, and never before had he been embraced so suddenly and in such a way. Yet after a few moments he recovered enough to return the awkward embrace, albeit with a simple pat on her shoulder. It didn't go unnoticed the way Flint was studying him.

"Come along," Silver then coaxed. "I think that will do for today's biology lesson." Without casting Flint so much as a second glance he began to collect their things and ushered her along.

"Mr. Silver, your magnifying glass."

John stopped rushing long enough to turn and see the man holding up the old instrument. _Oh._ It must have fallen out of his bag when Abigail had been sifting through it. "Thank you," he offered meekly as he stepped forward to take it. He didn't miss the way Flint's fingertips grazed against his palm. They were rough from years of horseback riding, surely, but strangely warm and soft nonetheless. Immediately John broke his gaze and hurried Abigail along so that they could be on their way. As they climbed the sloping hill to return to the estate, he could feel the way those piercing green eyes bore into the center of his back, all the while with the strength of a physical touch.


	5. Let Me Tell You a Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=206yidc)   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're progressing into the more explicit content, as we begin to explore the mind of a randy eighteen year-old John. (Pun intended)

John's fingers danced across the polished keys of the piano with an ease that only years of practice allowed. The instrument produced a melody far better than that of the old organ at the orphanage. It was also in far better condition than the harpsichord his aunt Reed had owned for several years. This, this was a proper musical instrument. Though it was clearly an antique that had spent many lifetimes in this estate, the fact that it had been well maintained and cared for over the years went without a doubt. The keys were pristine, any ones that had been scuffed or chipped replaced, the oak wood was polished and vibrant to cover the scratches, and it was perfectly tuned. The sounds that lilted across the room with each tap of the ivory keys were almost as beautiful as its source. Almost.

John had spent the majority of the afternoon here in the main drawing room. Today's lessons with Miss Abigail had concluded earlier than usual so that she could accompany Ms. Mapleton on her trip into town. She had positively lit up at the news and the very mention of shopping. Like most children, Abigail had surely grown restless from being couped up here during the winter. Even in a place as vast as this, even he supposed it could draw tiresome past a point. Even so, when they had extended him the offer to accompany them he had politely declined. He desperately needed the peace and quiet that came with being alone. Regardless, she smiled brightly as she promised to bring him back a piece of chocolate from one of the shops.

Unfortunately, even in this gentle solitude he found it difficult to calm the torrent of thoughts within his mind. No matter what they would eventually return to the enigma that was the master of the house. John had always prided himself at his ability to read people and figure out what made them tick. To discover what events had transpired to mold the person that stood before him. Even Mr. Hornigold, the old overseer at the orphanage, could not keep his secrets hidden from the magic woven by his silver tongue. He had been widowed for several years and had bore no children. Not through lack of trying, he had come to find, but from impotence. Surely this had been a significant factor to his sour countenance and overall shitty person hood. The old man had found solace in punishing the children he could never have, lashing out like the harsh and steady guardian he would never be, all in an effort to fill the void and stem his anger over the loss of his wife. After all, there was no better way to cope with something you could never have than by pretending it was never desired in the first place. And so too had Hornigold turned to religion to rest upon it like a crutch, for it was the only thing he could find to rationalize his own shameful behavior and actions.

Within a week of meeting Billy Manderly he had discovered the shadows of his past as well, something he had likely never shared with anyone else. He had been kidnapped at a young age and was put to work for several years by his captors. When he was finally discovered, instead of attempting to seek out his family, he had simply been pushed from one orphanage to another. Eventually he confessed that he felt no desire to see them again. Perhaps it was from some buried shame that was tied to his "perversion" of craving the male form. In any case, he seemed resolute to spend his life watching after the little ones to ensure they did not suffer as he did.

Max had been born a slave and had spent most of her childhood working on a plantation until she had been able to buy her freedom. She stood on her own two feet with pride and determination and sought out to secure her own education. Over the years she had worked for several families as a housekeeper, organizing the help and maintaining the day to day activities of an estate that most knew nothing about, before coming to be employed by Flint. Idelle used to be a prostitute before falling in love with Mr. Featherstone, a merchant sailor who had just recently come to manage the town's inn in an effort to remain closer to her. Gates had known the master for several years and actually considered the man a close friend. Apparently his position as the cook here had been initially offered as a favor after his luck at gambling ran dry. Even Randall, a slightly strange and silent man who was often nowhere to be found, had not escaped his notice. He too had known Mr. Flint for several years, though as to how he wasn't certain, and usually busied himself with the laundry when he wasn't assisting Gates in the kitchen.

Flint, though... He knew next to nothing about the man. He was well educated --then again, all noblemen were--, held a deep love for literature, and possessed a rather pragmatic mind, even though at times it did succumb to outbursts of anger. He was clearly troubled, though any effort to discover the source raised more questions than it did answers. Even Miss Abigail could hardly claim that he was little more than a stranger. Though she had been indirectly under his care since she was a babe, it was not until this past year that she had actually met the man. Flint had no family still living, though according to Gates he had never been notably close to them anyway. He had been raised a single child and his mother had passed away when he came of age, his father following in her footsteps some years ago. Other than that, the man was a closed book. And truthfully, it frustrated John to no end. It caused him to feel on edge whenever he was around Mr. Flint. He never knew what to expect from him, and he could hardly ever manage a glimpse past that mask that was almost as well-crafted as his own. He knew far more about John and his past than he cared to reveal, and the fact that in this instance he didn't have the upper hand... It made him uneasy at best. Usually knowledge was reciprocated with knowledge. A secret for a secret, one which he could then use to gain even footing and even leverage later down the road. Now he had next to nothing, save for that uneasy sense of vulnerability. Of being seen while he himself remained blind. It was a circumstance he had fought hard to avoid since the first time he was ever locked in that Red Room.

John hadn't realized he had come to absentmindedly press down on a single, random key until Flint's voice cut through the air. "Miss Abigail told me you could play the piano, I had only assumed she meant more than a single note." Immediately John was pulled from his reverie and he turned to face the man, a faint smirk on his lips.

"You very well know that I can play," John argued easily enough though his fingertips did briefly lift from the keys. "I've caught you listening in on more than one occasion."

"Oh?" Flint's expression was even beneath that practiced mask, save for the single eyebrow that had drawn upwards. Mild amusement shown deep in those green depths as he chose to play innocent.

"You're not as good at sneaking about as you think," he dared.

Fortunately Flint didn't seem to mind his quippy remarks. If anything, he found them somewhat entertaining based off the sly smirk that lifted at the edge of his mouth. "Not everyone has a devil on their shoulder to silence their footsteps," he reminded him firmly. "In any case," he sighed tiredly, "It's your fault I've found myself sequestered in this place to begin with."

John couldn't help his slight frown. This was the first time he had mentioned the injury since their first official meeting. And even though he could tell the man was jesting, if only just, that faint hint of blame still colored his tone. "How is your ankle?" he asked nonchalantly after a moment. As he spoke his hands returned to the keyboard to play a gentle tune from his memory.

"Fine enough," Flint returned simply. The reply was soon followed by the sound of approaching footsteps against the floorboards. They stopped sort, and even with his back turned John could sense the gaze that rested heavily on him. "Keep your wrists up," he advised then. "Your posture is shoddy, and you're dragging them as you play."

John smirked as he did as he was told, straightening back his shoulders and lifting his wrists as his fingers moved over the keys. " _Yes, Sir_ ," he resigned with a shit-eating grin, if only to annoy the man.

Mr. Flint offered no snide retort but remained by his side nonetheless. John continued to play a variety of soothing melodies built on slow, ebbing rhythms, his fingers traveling based off of memory alone, until he began to grow comfortable beneath the weight that accompanied the master's close proximity. He didn't even pause when Flint decided to bridge the gap that separated them and slid alongside him on the piano bench. However, he did notice the way his own pulse briefly quickened when that knee bumped against his own. He felt it hammer in his chest with the same clarity as each punch of the ivory keys.

John's gaze remained downcast on where the music sheets would normally be propped as he suddenly shifted to a different song. It was another of his favorites. One with a soulful melody that ebbed and flowed both in the pace and strength of its notes. He was nearly a third of the way through when the man sitting beside him finally shifted. Flint's fingers struck lightly against the keys as he joined in playing right alongside him. He matched his pace with skillful ease as he too seemed to know the song by heart. To be honest, this was the first time he had ever had the opportunity to share this song with another. This was how the melody was meant to be played. It had been composed as two halves, two separate yet equal pieces, that were to be played in tandem in order to be fully understood. It required a partnership to do it justice. To best capture the rise and fall of the notes, the highs and the lows, the quickened pace that then gave way to the drawn-out cords.

By the time they had reached its end John's fingertips were all but tingling from the thrill of it. A smile was set upon his lips, small but genuine, and when he glanced upwards those green pools were lighter than he had ever seen them. Even so, Flint was still, well... Flint. And so, naturally, the first words to fall from his lips were in the form of a criticism.

"You're still slacking your wrists."

John only chuckled. It was a bad habit he had apparently allowed for far too long. Yet instead of giving that voice or offering some sarcastic remark in return, he simply asked, "Again?"

To his pleasant surprise, the two continued to play the piano together for the next hour or so. During that time they had gradually shifted even closer to one another until their legs were perfectly aligned, and touching from knee to hip. John felt the heat that radiated off of him as if he were the sun itself. Occasionally their hands would brush against the other's as their fingers moved across the keys, and each time they did sparks were sent shooting up his arm and straight through his chest.

John immediately recognized the sensation for what it was: Desire. It was what he had experienced that first time he and Billy had shared a seemingly innocent touch. Looking back, there had been nothing innocent about it. The way their hands had so briefly touched late one afternoon when passing each other in the hall was no mistake. Instead it was one man tentatively reaching out to another to subtly test the boundaries of physical contact. Seeking, asking, hoping. Seeing if the other would simply ignore the touch or withdraw from it, or, if they were fortunate, press into it with a faint smile and a welcoming glint in their eye. That encounter had invoked the latter, and when he and Billy had come together next it was with pressing palms and nipping teeth. As John glanced over at Flint now, he couldn't help but imagine what those lips would feel like against his own. He wondered if they would be soft and warm as Billy's had been, or if they would be just as fierce and hard as the rest of him. And for a moment, just a moment, John could have sworn those green eyes flicked downward to rest on his own mouth, as if he were silently pondering the same question.

Unfortunately, such questions were abruptly brought to rest by the sound of hurried footsteps down the corridor. Moments later Abigail came rushing into the room with that usual brilliant smile upon her face. "Monsieur Silver, Monsieur Silver! Vous ne croiriez pas ce que nous avons trouve aujourdi'hui!"

John sighed softly. "Remember Miss Abigail, you need to use your English," he reminded her gently just as those small arms wrapped around his shoulders.

"Ah, j'ai oublie!" she relented with an unconvincing pout before continuing. "You wouldn't believe all that we found, Monsieur Silver! Chocolates and flowers, and some of the most elegant dresses I have ever seen! And even books for Monsieur Flint!" When she moved to embrace her guardian as well, John didn't miss the way Flint's cheek twitched at the abrupt contact. Again that same frown pulled at his lips, and it wasn't until he noticed John's gaze that he at the very least offered her a soft pat atop the head. This seemed to be satisfactory for her, for she immediately let go and knelt down to pet Teach who had fallen asleep behind the piano bench.

Flint cleared his throat as he worked to straighten the collar of his shirt. "Until later, John," he offered then. Despite the softness of the words his tone was course like sand. Once again that hand brushed against his own as he moved to stand. This time, however, that touch lingered for several moments, a line of fire going straight to his gut as those fingertips grazed over the back of his had before withdrawing completely. The man whistled just as he left the room, and without delay Teach leapt to his feet and went padding down the hall after him. Blue eyes closed as John released a steadying breath. Once his heart returned to its normal rhythm, or as close as it would likely get for quite a while, he closed the piano cover and proceeded to ask Miss Abigail about the rest of their trip.

* * *

Over the next few days John spent his free time lost within the vast recesses of his mind. Unlike usual he was not wandering through the hills of Scotland or sailing across the Caribbean as he often did, but instead he was replaying the scenes of his most recent time spent with Flint. He recalled the press of fingers against the back of his hand, too firm and lingering far too long to have been anything other than purposeful. He remembered the warmth that radiated from his thigh as it pressed up against his own. The hardness of the muscle hidden beneath his trousers, strengthened from years of horseback riding and constant travel. He wondered vaguely what they would feel like beneath his wandering hands. If light traces of copper hair would tickle against his cheek if he were to sink to his knees and nestle himself between those legs. He wondered what those fingers would feel like tangled in his hair. Whether they would massage the base of his scalp as he opened his mouth to taste him, or if they would greedily yank him closer. His mind was nothing but questions, fervent what-if's and imagined scenarios that had Max asking more than once if he was feeling feverish. He certainly was, but not from anything that could be resolved as simply as a winter cold. He wondered if Flint was cut, what his length would feel like pillowed on his tongue. What he would taste like. What his name would sound like falling from those lips with such reverence. John, _John_.

It didn't help that Flint continued to join him in the drawing room late each afternoon. Sometimes he would merely listen to him play as he read whatever new novel he had found, or rather re-read one he had spotted him with several times before. Usually something poetic or philosophical. Sometimes he joined him at the bench and they fell into the developing pattern of playing the instrument alongside one another. Once or twice he joined he and Abigail during their lesson, and even taught her a new song himself. It almost appeared as though he were making an effort to bond with the girl, as ridiculous a notion as it seemed. All the while, John fought to keep his mind clear and focused so that that telling heat would refrain from darkening his cheeks. Still those thoughts always returned to him, even if they did have the good graces to wait until later when he was alone. The thought of auburn hair between his fingers and hot breath against his neck. _John._ And as before, there were occasions in which John would catch the man's gaze lingering were they shouldn't. Usually on his mouth, sometimes lower. And each time Flint seemed to close himself off more quickly than before. It was confusing at best and unbelievably frustrating at its worst, as he still, _still_ found himself unable to read the man.

It went without saying that there was far too much at stake to even consider acting on the impulses currently determined to wreak havoc. Even so, there were times in which the way Flint would gaze upon him that had him thinking back to the way Billy had looked at him. With slightly parted lips and dilated pupils. The faint twitch of a hand that sought to reach out. Surely it was the same. It _had_ to be the same. Yet if he were mistaken... Not only would he lose his position here, as well as the money he hadn't actually been paid yet, but he would lose _everything._ His credibility, any reputation that he had managed to build over these past few months, everything. Not to mention a likely beating and involvement of the church and even the authorities. After all, sodomy was something men far better than he were killed for. He wouldn't risk throwing away his chance at a secure future because he couldn't control his urges. So he did his best to keep these pestering thoughts at bay until he was behind the safety of his locked chamber door.

One evening after dinner John and Miss Abigail were requested to the main drawing room. While they had certainly spent much time in there as of late, both with and without the master's company, it was unusual for them to be allowed in there at such an hour. Usually Flint preferred to keep the evenings to himself so that he could enjoy some quiet privacy. Still, John didn't allow himself to think much of it. Instead he rolled his eyes and warned Abigail to be careful as she skipped across the shadowed courtyard. The words, "Yes, Mr. Silver," met his ears just as something caught his eye. As always, the only thing that was ever out of place, the only thing that ever sparked his darker curiosity, came from that one tower set beside the main corridor. Supposedly that was where Randal tended to the linens, though he had always been able to take note of such a thin lie. Sometimes a single lantern was lit within the room, and sometimes a red scarf was draped from the cracked window. Tonight it was the latter. His eyes followed the scarlet fabric as it billowed in the gentle breeze until Abigail's voice hurried him along.

Sure enough when they entered the drawing room, Flint was lounging in one of the chairs beside the fire with the usual thick volume set upon his lap. He held a glass with two fingers of a dark liquor in his hand. It only took a single glance for John to tell that the man was in a far worse mood than usual. Even so, he greeted them both with civil words and a gentle tone. "Ah, there you are."

"Did you require something?" John asked, merely curious.

The man simply shrugged. "Abigail had mentioned several times before how she wished to spend more time in here." The answer was a shoddy one at best, as it didn't exactly explain why his presence had been requested as well, but John accepted it nonetheless. Far be it for him to deny the opportunity to spend more time in his presence. If anything, it would only provide more for him to think on later. And so Abigail settled on the couch with her dolls, one a rather fancy thing that had surely come from Paris and one she had fashioned herself. John sat down beside her, listening to the crackling of the fire as he aimlessly sketched across empty pages. He no longer drew in his worn bible, but a sketchbook Idelle had so thoughtfully purchased for him at her insistence. Supposedly to "keep him from getting into trouble with someone far less understanding".

For the most part the room was enveloped in silence, save for Abigail's softly spoken French as she acted out one play after another with her dolls. When she began to hum, the tune a soft lullaby that seemed strangely familiar, he saw Flint's body grow tense out of the corner of his eye. His jaw became set in place and his face was drawn. Strange, seeing as he never seemed to much mind her singing before. Even so John refrained from asking any questions about it or his mood, weary of unintentionally agitating him further.

"Monsieur Silver?" Abigail eventually asked.

"Mhm?" John asked. His eyes lifted only briefly from the pages before him. The little girl was smiling up at him rather mischievously. It was a look she often wore when she was about to tell one of her tales.

"Did you hear the ghost last night, Monsieur Silver?"

"No, I did not."

"Ah, but she was singing so beautifully!" she expressed as she clutched at her doll. "I heard her as she moved down the halls. Ah! And this morning when I awoke, the painting in the hall had been moved! _La Ville en Colere_."

"Abigail." For the first time since they had sat down Flint's voice cut across the room. His tone was one of warning.

"And such a lovely melodie," Abigail sighed, her guardian going ignored. She then proceeded to hum that same lullaby that had set him so on edge not much earlier.

"Miss Abigail.." This time it was John that had spoken up. Even so she continued to hum, seemingly oblivious to the way Flint's expression was darkening, until his resolve finally broke.

"Enough!" Flint all but shouted. The sheer volume and suddenness of it was enough to make Abigail fall silent immediately, her hazelnut eyes drawn wide. "I have told you before not to spin such absurd stories, have I not?! Now get out of my sight before I send you off to school, you insufferable child!" Abigail rushed from the room with the same swiftness he recognized from his own childhood. One of genuine fear and confusion. The moment she was gone Flint tossed back the rest of this drink before raking his fingers through his hair.

John swallowed, his gaze lowering slightly as his tongue reached out to wet his lower lip. As quietly as he could he collected his belongings so that he could take his leave as well. However, he hadn't so much as stood before the man called out to him.

"Don't." When John glanced up the man was aiming a glare in his direction, his hair was mussed from where his fingers had combed through it. "Don't," he repeated he repeated with a shake of his head. "Don't give me that look of such disdain and judgement, only to skulk away without offering up a single word. You have something to say, you fucking say it," he demanded. Despite the harsh tone, despite the anger and frustration in his eyes, there was something else in his expression that seemed almost... searching. For validation, perhaps, or for answers to his own questions that he refused to speak. "You think me too harsh? Too unfair?"

John adjusted the papers in his arms as he looked evenly at him. "Do you want my honest opinion..?"

Those eyes moved over him briefly before he offered a single nod. "Always."

John swallowed, his fingers fidgeting just slightly as he lifted his chin to better match his gaze. "I think, _Sir_ ," he began with a tone that was just as unwavering, "That in this moment it is you that is being an insufferable child." He couldn't help his anger. Even if he made an honest effort at doing so, he would not be able to tame his tongue. Not now, not after witnessing the clear hurt that had flashed across Abigail's features. And as he left the room without so much as a backward glance, he heard the one thing he had not expected: Complete and utter silence.

* * *

The weather was surprisingly pleasant the next morning when John began his usual walk about the grounds. Despite the chirping birds and the warm breeze against his skin, he found it difficult to fully enjoy either of it. Instead his mind kept drifting to the night before. To the outburst Flint had directed at his ward, and the way he had so foolishly spoken up to him. Whether or not he had desired his honest opinion, he had spoken out of turn. At the very least he was certain that if it had truly angered him any further, he would have heard the shattering of glass or the thud of a thrown chair, as he had heard as much once or twice before. Instead his retort had been met with silence. Not so much as a string of swears or other disgruntled mumblings had chased after him. Perhaps he had already come to regret his outburst. Perhaps he had understood immediately just how uncalled for it was, no matter the reason, and had sought for his own self criticisms to be confirmed. In any case, he was hoping to steer clear of him for a day or two, just for good measure.

John had just rounded the bend that followed along the river when he spotted Mr. Flint standing beside a tree. His back was facing towards him, and so quietly he turned to leave before he had the chance to notice him. Unfortunately, as he was proven time and time again, he was never quite so lucky.

"John."

John allowed himself a moment to steel his expression before turning back towards him. Fortunately, there was no anger to be seen in Flint's expression. Instead he just seemed... tired.

"Come. Sit with me a moment, if you please."

John sighed softly before stepping off the beaten path and joining the man beside the slow-moving river. All the ice and snow had melted, allowing the river to swell beyond its banks and give new life to the blossoming trees and flowers. However, it wasn't until Flint sat down in the grass with his back resting against the trunk of the tree, that John allowed himself to fully relax.

"I believe I owe you an apology," Flint offered after a moment.

"I don't believe I'm the person that it due one." This caused a sigh to pass the man's lips. With their close proximity John could clearly see the darkened rings that had formed beneath his eyes, proof alone that he had not slept well the night before. He couldn't help the smugness this inspired. At the very least, it insinuated that he did in fact feel regret for his actions.

Eventually Flint spoke once more, his tone just as worn as his expression.. "The majority of my servants believe that I hate her. Miss Abigail.. You have always seemed more... perceptive than most. Perhaps it is the devil in you," he offered with a faint smirk that failed to reach his eyes. Then, finally moving to meet his gaze, "What do you believe?"

John thought for a moment as he weighed his words carefully. "I don't believe that you hate her," he eventually offered. "You are unnecessarily cross with her at times, yes, and you are distant. But I do not believe it comes from a place of anger or hatred. I think... I see sadness in your eyes when you look at her."

Flint released a heavy breath as he leaned his head back against the bark of the tree. "Once again, you are not wrong. You, John... You see me clearly." His eyes closed for a few moments before opening again to settle on the water. "Abigail is not my child. She is not my burden nor my responsibility, though I have treated her as such since she was left without family to care for her." He paused, swallowing thickly as he appeared to need a moment before he could continue. "Her parents, Miranda and Thomas Hamilton, were the closest friends I had ever known. The truest people I had ever known..."

"What happened to them?" John dared to ask after Flint had fallen silent for several moments. He had never seen the man quite like this. So clearly lost.

"They died," he answered meekly, his tongue reaching out to wet his lips. "Illness," he then clarified. "They were struck down by fever when Abigail was almost two years old. They had lived in Paris all their lives. They were a wealthy family, of course. I left her in the care of her nursemaid and several other servants, supporting her monetarily from afar for all these years. I rationalized it, told myself that it was because I couldn't possibly move her from the culture her parents had shared, from the life she deserved. It wasn't until she came here, nearly a year ago, that I realized the true reason... I was a coward." He shook his head then. "I knew that the older she got, the more of her parents I would see in her. I can no longer deny that now. Every time I look at her, I see Miranda's vibrant eyes. I see her dark curls, Thomas' warm complexion and disarming smile. She has their intelligence, their curiosity. Their innocence. I don't hate her... I love her more than I should, for a child that is in no way mine, but every time I see her, my heart breaks even further."

John remained respectfully quiet as he listened. He weighed his words with a trained ear, his eyes searching over his expression with an urgency he hadn't known before. He felt the overpowering need to understand. Not just what it was Flint was feeling in this moment, but _why_. As he took in the sight of him, he saw a broken man. He saw the heavy exhaustion in his eyes, not merely from lack of sleep but from the weight of his past losses. He saw now the lines in his forehead as his brows remained drawn, his lips slightly parted.

"You must have cared for them a great deal," John spoke gently after a moment.

Flint swallowed, his gaze flicking off to the side as if he had just suddenly come back to himself. "I had never known two better souls," he answered simply, his voice steady once more. "They were my closest friends for many, many years..."

"I'm sorry that you lost them so suddenly."

Flint nodded slowly. "Have you ever loved anyone, John?" he asked after several moments. Still he would not meet his eyes.

Puzzled by the abrupt and unrelated question that had seemingly arisen from nowhere, John shook his head. "I have not," he answered honestly.

Again that muscle in the man's jaw twitched. "You're lucky." That hard edge had returned not only to his tone, but to his gaze as well.

John hesitated slightly before moving to extend some form of comfort. While he had always been gifted at reading emotions, easing one's grief or hurt had never been his strong suite. He could offer a sarcastic remark or petty joke in an effort to lighten the mood until he turned blue in the face, but he had never been able to offer comfort of actual substance and worth. Yet as he carefully rested a hand against Flint's arm, he could see how the man's form began to relax beneath his touch. Despite the gesture neither of them spoke. In fact, they didn't even look at each other. Instead they merely took solace in the calm hours of the early morning, sitting in their comfortable silence of simple understanding, until eventually that hand raised to touch his own.


	6. Scarlet and Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2dh8cp0)   
> 

The two of them remained down there by the water's edge for quite a while. How long exactly, John wasn't certain. Not that it was of any significance either way, as by the time they finally trekked up the sloping hill to return to the estate he knew far more of Flint than he was beginning to think he ever would. While it had taken him several minutes to work up the courage to break that fragile silence, John had eventually asked to hear more about Miranda and Thomas Hamilton. Who they were, what they were like, how they had come to know each other. Anything the man would feel comfortable enough in sharing, really. The reasons behind his gentle prodding were perhaps too many to list. There was his natural curiosity, certainly, but that had never been enough to cause him to pry into the man's life before. He was one that seemed to take his privacy, both in terms of the past and the present, very seriously. There was also perhaps the notion that talking openly of one's grief would help to ease their mind. Then again this was advice he had never taken himself. He was perhaps just as comfortable in sharing emotion as his employer, and so in such an instance he would serve far better as a simple listener. Of course the most prominent reason was, as always, his interests in self preservation. Though he had realized not long ago that he would never use the man's past in order to gain leverage or provide a source of blackmail --if it were ever truly necessary--, there were other methods in which secrets could be put to use. For instance, simple understanding. Of their motives, their reasoning behind certain decisions, how they saw the world and interacted with it; everything. Secrets could unlock the very foundation of who one was as a person.

Already, learning about the untimely death of the Hamiltons had provided a wealth of knowledge. It explained the way Flint gazed upon his ward with such melancholy. Why he fought so hard to distance himself from her emotionally and maintain an arm's length at all times. Why he could so suddenly become agitated by her mere presence without reason or prior warning. Perhaps it was also why he normally spent most of his time traveling. He was not merely running away from his grief, but from the physical reminder of his loss. An exact mirror of the two people he had cared for so deeply.

The two of them had been aristocrats, naturally. Nobles typically refrained from forming relationships with those outside their respective social circles. Apparently their family had been old friends with Flint's father, who had finally introduced them properly when a business venture had taken them to France. Flint had taken to them immediately, and it quickly became apparent just how much the two of them had shaped the man that now sat beside him. Miranda had been quite the skilled pianist while her husband Thomas possessed a strong passion for literature. He had spent the majority of his later years using his sharpened mind to pursue politics. With a faint chuckle, Flint described him as quite the visionary. A man who had not been spoiled by his upbringing, but instead sought to use his privilege to better the lives of others. To rewrite the social morays so that humanity could take a step forward instead of backwards, just as it had been doing for the past several decades.

While Flint did not exactly go into the finer details of this, it seemed clear that this Thomas was a great man. Someone who, like the master and even himself, truly saw the world for what it was. Flawed, unfair, and harsh. Not only that, but had sought to change it. His wife had also shared this vision of a bettered future. Not just that, but she had even possessed her own independent voice upon the political stage. This surprised John, as he had grown up being taught that women were to be seen instead of heard. A thought that he had obviously never agree with himself but had witnessed time and time again in the real world. For a nobleman to not only accept his wife's opinions, but to encourage freedom of thought and assist in giving them voice... It was quite amazing. He could see why he respected them so.

Eventually, however, Flint's newfound resolve in sharing such personal stories began to reach its inevitable end. His descriptions became sparser the longer he spoke, his sentences shortening to clipped one-word answers, until finally he fell silent altogether. John didn't push the matter. Instead he allowed the quiet to slowly mold the man's features back into that stern, blank slate. The one that so effortlessly masked his true emotions. Though Flint's fingers had come to trail absentmindedly over John's as he reminisced, they fell away from him now. His lip twitched downward as he averted his gaze, almost as if he had just come back into himself. John tried to stifle just how keenly he felt this loss and in turn removed his own hand from where it had lain upon Flint's arm.

The sun had drawn high into the sky by the time they made their way back to Thornfield. Max made it clear within mere moments of their return that she was due an apology. Not only had they worried her with their absence and caused a perfectly good breakfast to go to waste, but John was late for Miss Abigail's first lesson of the day. Thanks to him, she scolded, Abigail had spent her newly freed time following her about the halls and distracting her from her various duties. Though John had never been one to apologize he would always make an exception for Max. Especially when in this case it was certainly warranted. By the time the girl was returned to his arms and they were ushered on their way, Flint was no where to be seen. Not that this was at all surprising as he had never been one to announce his coming and going. In any case he paid it no mind. At least not until a few hours later.

John caught sight of Flint patiently standing outside the door to the schoolroom as he waited for their lesson to conclude. When it had,  John allowed the two of them some privacy by giving them the room. However, he did linger nearby just in case Flint lost his temper once again, and he were needed to diffuse the situation. Fortunately he was pleasantly surprised. When he peered around the corner he saw the man kneeling beside Abigail with a hand resting atop her shoulder. He was too far away and spoke far too quietly for him to make out the words being shared, but based on the way she moved to hug him not moments later, it was an apology. Just as before tension swiftly made its way through Flint's form at the unwelcome contact. Yet within mere moments he seemed to relax, and then something even more astounding happened: Those arms slowly lifted to return her embrace. John watched as Flint held her close, pressing his face against her dark curls before touching his lips to her forehead and gently coaxing her on her way. He couldn't help the smile that teased at his lips at the tender sight, especially when those green eyes rose to meet his own. Flint's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed before the man offered him a small nod. As he did so his gaze once more lowered to the floor.

Though neither of them ever mentioned it, it seemed that the very foundation of their relationship had shifted since that day. Whether it had begun with John speaking harshly and out of turn or with Flint's first mention of Thomas and Miranda Hamilton, he wasn't certain. Nor did it really matter. What mattered was that Flint no longer looked down on him. Though ultimately nothing had changed and he was still a teacher, a mere servant, the man now gazed upon him as if they were equals. He was no longer called to attention with a whistle or by a simple 'you'. Not even was he called 'Mr. Silver'. Now he was simply John. As with the few others Flint had come to know well and trust over the years, there no longer seemed to be a need for such petty titles. They had found their own unique link with one another. There was comradery there, certainly, as well as a newfound respect. Perhaps there was even friendship. And as with most things Thornfield had brought forth, John reveled in it.

Though Flint hadn't mentioned either of the Hamiltons since that day, their discussions had continued without a fault, and in an ever-increasing intimate nature. Though they normally conversed in the evenings over tea or in the halls in passing, every so often the man would accompany John on his morning walk so that they could enjoy their own shred of privacy. For the most part they discussed literature and art, as Flint's library offered an ample supply of both. Soon Flint had even extended the invitation to make use of his personal library within his study. There the shelves were stocked with his absolute favorites, most of which he ensured John that he would enjoy. He only asked that he refrain from touching any of the volumes on his desk, and it was a condition that he readily agreed to. Eventually, their talks ventured from trivial topics to more personal matters. Flint told him of his father, that he was a good man though strangely distant. He told him of his years at a private school before he entered into his father's business. He shared with him stories of his recent travels, both across land and the seas. John even found himself sharing secrets from his past. Not out of guilt or pressure to reveal his own vulnerabilities, nor to further some hidden agenda, but because he genuinely wanted to. He _wanted_ Flint to understand him. To know of Muldoon and how his brief yet strong friendship had impacted him so. To know of how his death had tormented him for months, causing him to wake shaking from nightmares. He told him of the orphanage, the beatings, how it had somehow, _somehow_ been an improvement over his own home. Life at the school was not pleasant in any way. It was harsh, unyielding and undeserving, yet he had found that at least there he was not alone. He had found friendship, even if they had been years apart. There was no pity to be found in Flint's gaze when he shared these glimpses into his past. Instead there was only empathy and understanding. It was oddly comforting, really, to be listened to. To have someone that cared to know his thoughts and feelings on certain matters.

The developing nature of their relationship obviously did not escape Max's notice. There was no way that it could. In all honesty, the woman knew each of them far too well. So time and time again she warned him, her gaze kind yet firm as she watched him over the pot of tea she was currently brewing. _Be careful._ John understood, truly he did. Though Flint could certainly be less formal with his staff than most nobles, he understood that in society's eyes the two of them were completely different. Flint was a noble, an aristocrat born of 'good' blood. He, on the other hand? He was nothing. He was no one, from no where, belonging to nothing. He was a whelp, a wretch. John understood that. And he understood the weariness Max surely felt. After all, he was certain that there were times in which she caught the exact nature of his gaze when he looked upon the man. That there was something more there lingering beneath the surface. Even Idelle had caught onto it after a while. Yet she had simply laughed and shook her head, stating that _it was just barely the start of spring, yet he was already twitterpated._ John had simply smirked at the comment, offering no confirmation nor denial. By anyone's guess this was the longest the master had ever remained at the estate, and a small part of him liked to imagine that he was the reason behind it. And so refused to try and distance himself from the man despite Max's persistent warnings. Their conversations continued to develop in nature, their walks became longer and took place more often, and their time spent over tea extended to the occasional evening set beside the fire.

All the while John became more and more lost on the man. His gaze lingered for far longer than he should allow, drifting far lower than appropriate, and his thoughts returned to him almost incessantly. Soon it wasn't unusual for the man to invade his very dreams. He dreamt of how that supple flesh, the color of warm milk, would feel beneath the drag of his hands. He wondered just how far that splattering of freckles extended across the hard expanses of his body. How many patterns he could trace and different constellations he could map with his fingertips. One day in particular his resolve to keep his budding attraction at bay was put to the test. Although it had started innocently enough, according to Idelle it always did.

"Do you ride?"

John glanced up from the mess of parchment and charcoal that was sprawled across his lap. They had decided to take a break from their studies for the day and had been relaxing in the drawing room for the past few hours. It wasn't until just recently that Flint had joined them. He was dressed for riding, his ankle having properly healed numerous days ago, and he had apparently suffered enough long days couped up inside this place.

"Beg pardon?" John asked. It wasn't that he didn't understand the question, he just didn't understand the reasoning behind it.

"Do you ride?" Flint repeated as he turned away from where he had been looking out the window.

"I'm afraid I don't know how."

Fleeting though it was, the man actually laughed. It was a strange occurrence if there ever was one. "You must be joking," he assured. "Even the young Miss Abigail knows how to ride a horse."

"I haven't exactly had the opportunity to learn," John pointed out with a gentle glare that was barely hidden beneath his brows.

Flint merely hummed as he turned to peer back out the window. After a moment he seemed to reach some silent conclusion, for then said, "Come along, then."

John's lips parted wordlessly as he glanced at Abigail, somehow thinking the girl would give him proper direction in how to answer. Quickly he recovered enough to offer a shake of his head. "I don't think--"

"Come now. Certainly there's no better opportunity to learn than right now." Flint gazed at him expectantly as his spoke. Something in those eyes told him that he would not be willing to take no for an answer, yet still he persisted. Or at the very least he tried to. Yet the moment his mouth opened to speak he was cut off once more. "The weather is pleasant enough and I'm certain you'd enjoy a chance to get out and stretch your legs. 'Fresh air', and all that..." After a moment his expression softened somewhat and he gave a slight upward tilt of his chin. "Trust me. I think you'd find it quite enjoyable."

Again John found himself at a loss for words. He had never ridden a horse before, truly. And if he were being perfectly honest with himself, he hadn't even spent that much time around the creatures. That being said he wasn't overly fond of the beasts. And based on the way Flint's own stead had stamped its hooves and edged away from him, they weren't all too trusting of him either. Then again it had been startled at the time, but still... They were large, strong and wild. Willful things that needed to be "broken" to even get anywhere near them, let alone saddle and actually ride them.

"John."

This time that voice encouraged John to look up and actually meet his gaze. After lightly chewing on the inside of his lip --that way Flint couldn't gauge his true unease over the matter--, he gave a faint nod. "Fine," he conceded. Then with the practiced charm of his usual false smile, "If this is merely a scheme to get me flung off a horse, I won't forgive you." Flint only smirked in return.

Unfortunately John's apprehension over this endeavor only mounted by the time they reached the stables. Nonetheless, he followed behind Flint as he was led to one of the pens. He immediately recognized the stead as being Flint's very own. It was still quite the impressive thing even when it wasn't about to run him down. Its coat was a rich ebony with a mane the color of charcoal and deep eyes to match. Handsome yet intimidating; ironically, similar to its rider. Without delay Flint went through the process of properly grooming and tacking a horse. It seemed simple enough, at least until the stablemate led forward a different horse and he was handed a saddle of his very own.

Flint seemed to take great amusement in this. Not just in the way John's brow furrowed and his lips pursed in concentration as he tried to get the stubborn beast to cooperate with him and stay still, but possibly by the fact that he had finally found something he wasn't an expert at. After all, the master knew well of all his accomplishments. He knew that he was intelligent and an experienced teacher, that he could draw and write, and even play piano. And as he took in the sight of John swearing in frustration as he tried to get the bridle properly into place, a smug smile tugged at his lips. Finally though, he somehow managed.

"There," John sighed, triumphant. He nodded towards the beast as he raised his hands to his hips. "Not bad," he murmured as he overlooked his handiwork.

"Not bad at all."

When Flint didn't say anything more he glanced over at him. There it was again, that expecting gaze centered right on him. When John didn't make a move, he frowned with a raise of his brow. "Go on, then," Flint urged him with a jerk of his chin.

John's mind stalled. "Wait," he struggled after a moment, gesturing. "You want me to actually _get on_ the horse."

Flint looked just as aghast as he. "Well... yes, obviously. What did you think was going to happen?"

"I thought you were merely going to _show me_ how to ride."

The man scoffed. "You don't learn from watching," he argued, clearly flustered. "You learn from doing. Now come on, foot in the stirrup!"

"No, no way," John refused, raising his hands as he shook his head. "I'm not doing it. There's no way." Though Flint seemed to have reached his limit for this particular argument, he didn't miss the way those green eyes rolled upwards in exasperation. Nor did he miss that heavy sigh that escaped his lips. Without another word Flint turned, clicking his tongue as he grabbed the bridle to lead his own horse out of the stable. John watched him go, stubborn as ever. Yet before a full minute had even passed he let out a string of curses before tugging the light brown mare along. Sure enough, Flint had expected as much and was waiting outside for them, that pompous smirk on his lips. "So how do I do this?" John asked rather begrudgingly.

Fortunately Flint was courteous enough to withhold any snide remarks and instead simply continued on with the lesson. He went through the basics of mounting a horse, such as stepping up from their left side so that you don't startle them, before giving a demonstration. Still, John was weary. "Trust me," Flint urged him gently.

John took a steadying breath before managing a nod. Mirroring what the man had done just moments earlier, he caught his left foot in the stirrup before stepping up and swinging his leg over. Immediately he grabbed at the front of the saddle to steady himself, almost missing the smile on Flint's face as he peered up at him. "Easy now," he gentled him, "I got you." Despite the fact that Flint had held tight to the reigns when he mounted, the way the horse still shuffled between his legs caused his stomach to flip several times over. So much so, in fact, that it took John several moments to take notice of the hand resting on his leg. Blue eyes closed, and the next time his stomach fluttered it was for an entirely different reason. "Are you alright?" Concern darkened Flint's tone.

John fought to swallow down the desert that had formed in his throat before nodding. Though Flint didn't seemed too convinced based on his frown, he granted him a moment before continuing nonetheless. Still, that hand remained on his thigh. "Now, take the reigns in your hands," he instructed. "No.. No, not like that. Don't grip them in a fist. Here..." As he spoke he reached up, uncurling John's fingers so that he could better adjust his hold on the leather. Each press of his fingers sent shocks straight through to his feet. Still, he did his best to pay attention. That, and to stave off any telling flush from darkening his cheeks. Fortunately he was rather adept at steeling his expression. "See?" Flint asked then. "Holding them like this feels much more natural. It gives you more range of motion in your shoulders, and makes it far easier to urge them in the direction you want."

Without warning the man's hand settled on the small of his back, his palm pressing down with a firm touch that nearly sent John leaping out of his skin from the shock of it. "Straighten your back.. Yes, like that," Flint nodded, seemingly oblivious though he wasn't sure how that was possible. "Keep a good posture when you're riding. Actually _sit_ in the saddle, don't grip her side with your knees or you might fall off... There," Flint approved with a satisfied nod. His hand finally left its place on his leg so that he could instead pat the horse's neck. "Shall we, then?" he asked. When John glanced down he spotted that wolfish smile on his lips once more.

John had always been lucky in the sense that he generally took to things quite easily. Fortunately, horseback riding soon proved to be yet another. As the minutes dragged on John became more and more comfortable with the creature moving beneath him. Granted, he contributed that more to the animal's thorough training than his own imagined talent. He followed Flint's instructions and made sure to ignore that instinct to unnecessarily tighten his knees against the horse's side. And as he gradually began to relax, so too did the mare. Eventually, Flint gathered that he was comfortable enough to urge the horses into a gentle trot. They moved down the sloping hills that surrounded Thornfield Hall, following the path that led through the tall grass, away from the curving river and along the treeline. Before long Flint kicked at his horse's side, urging the beast into a breaking run, and then they were racing. John followed close behind, watching Flint's posture and mannerisms as he rode on ahead so that he could mirror them himself. He straightened his back, placing more weight down on the stirrups as he leaned forward to better help his stead.

Eventually John focused less on what he was doing and more on what he felt. On the wind that whipped through his hair as they rode, the sun on his face, watching the trees rush past out of the corner of his eye. He felt... free. Free and unstoppable, and strong. And by the time they finally slowed to a stop a true smile had spread across his face.

"Hmph. There it is..." Flint noted with a small chuckle as he guided his horse to come alongside him.

"What?" John asked. Fingers combed through his dark curls to try and work out the knots that had formed.

"That smile," Flint noted simply with a glint in his eyes. "The one that meets your eyes." He titled his head then. "Usually when you smile, it's one that appears rather forced."

John couldn't help his smirk. "Old trick," he confessed. "Makes it far easier to weather unpleasant company."

"Even mine?"

When John peered over at him next, the man's expression had fallen into an unreadable one. Those green eyes flicked over his face, searching. Despite it, John's soft smile remained in place. "Especially yours," he teased lightly before he could help himself.

Flint's lip twitched upward slightly at the remark. "We should be getting back," he noted gently after a few paces. He didn't wait for a reply before coaxing the horse into a trot once more, with John following close behind.

* * *

It would have been so easy for John pass off how Flint had crossed that physical barrier that day. It seemed to be the last that had come to exist between them as of late. That last wall that had been built between them, keeping them separate and in their own designated place of nobleman and servant. Yet it had been crossed with such ease. It had not merely been an extension of comfort during a time of inner turmoil, nor had it been an innocent brush of their fingers in passing. No. Instead it had been a purposeful touch. One of familiarity and trust. Still, it would have been easy enough for John to write it off as something else. To not forget about it entirely of course, as he often revisited how those hands had felt on him when it was late at night and his hand slipped beneath the covers, but to rationalize it. It would have been so easy. Were it not for the fact that such gentle touches continued to weave their way into their day to day interactions. Their fingers brushed unnecessarily whenever John handed him a cup of tea, or whenever Flint offered him a new book. Whenever they played the piano together they sat with barely a breadth of space between them, their legs pressing his knee to hip. Their fingers touched, their elbow occasionally nudging the other. Faint, secret smiles. Occasional glances that then turned to lingering gazes. It was maddening.

John did his best to cope with it, truly he did. He splashed cold water on his face, thought over something mundane such as the next day's arithmetic lesson, or traveled through the streets of Paris or the hills of Germany. Yet each time he allowed himself to delve into his imagination, his thoughts always guided him back towards those green eyes and auburn locks, and freckles that far outweighed the stars in the sky. Honestly, he hadn't spent this much time with his hand delved between his legs since he first began entering manhood. In some ways it only mounted his frustration. Each time Flint's name passed his lips in a reverent sigh within his mind it only strengthened his desire. For the weight of that body pressing over his own, for those lips against his neck and that warm breath in his ear. John, _John_.

Oftentimes he awoke in the middle of the night with flushed skin and quickened breaths, only for that fleeting image of Flint nestled between his thighs to slip out of his grasp. Tonight, however, was different. When John awoke with a start with his skin and hair drenched in a cold sweat, it was not from some dream of a torrid love affair. No, it was from a nightmare. He had been traveling down the darkened corridor in search of something... What exactly, he wasn't certain. When he turned one of the many corners he found a red scarf resting against the cobblestones. It was that same scarf he had seen billowing from that window in the tower time and time again. Yet the moment he picked it up it fell through his fingers like sand, leaving behind nothing but blood. Deep red stained his hands and forearms. Scarlet. The same exact color as the Red Room, and then suddenly he was there. Only it was not the ghost of his uncle Richard that he saw now, but the faceless specter that roamed the halls at Thornfield. And when it saw him, it _laughed_.

John sat up in the bed with shaking breaths so that he could better rake his fingers through his hair. He gulped at the cool night air almost desperately as he sought to calm his racing heart. It had been a nightmare... Only a nightmare. Yet the moment he finally began to calm a clatter could be heard echoing down the hall, followed by a faraway laugh. The same laugh as from his dream. Immediately his blood ran cold. Surely this was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. Perhaps he was still dreaming, lost in some repetitive nightmare. Yet the moment he climbed from the bed and pulled his tunic over his head, the bare pads of his feet meeting against the cool floorboards, he knew that he was not imagining this. No matter how much as he wished that he was.

The halls of the estate were eerily quiet as he moved down the darkened corridor. Guessing by the height of the moon in the sky it was sometime past midnight. Fortunately tonight the moon was full, and it's soft glow allowed enough light to guide his way without the aid of a lantern or even a candle. At least once his eyes had better adjusted to the darkness. Still, it did little to ease the uncertainty that gripped his chest. The only sound that broke the silence of the sleeping castle was the occasional rusting that came from far ahead. The next time he heard it, however, it was followed by a faint hum. A soft lullaby whose rhythm that had struck him as familiar before Abigail had even repeated it that one evening. The one she had said the ghost often sang as she wandered the halls.

John swallowed down his unease before quickening his steps. "Hello?" he called out. Unfortunately his voice went unanswered. He had hoped to hear Miss Abigail. Perhaps the girl had awoken wishing for a spot of tea to warm her belly, or perhaps this was her idea of a practical joke. Yet as he followed the gentle humming down the corridor, further, further, it suddenly disappeared altogether and gave way to silence. Though John had memorized these halls like the back of his own hand, in this particular corner of the estate, surrounded by such darkness, he found that he was lost. Still he continued to wander further. Surely there was something down here to be found. Surely whatever it was that had been humming so softly couldn't just disappear. Surely...

Eventually something managed to catch his eye. There was a faint flickering of candlelight further down the hall, breaking through the shadows. All too suddenly John managed to regain his bearings. The reason these halls didn't ring overly familiar was because this was Mr. Flint's more private corner of the estate. Yet as he drew closer, his brow knit in confusion. The light that escaped beneath the crack of one of the doors was far too strong to be from a single candle. So then what...?

"Mr. Flint?" John asked as his knuckles rapped lightly against the door. When there was no answer his unease only mounted. He didn't waste his time offering another knock before opening the door. "Mr. Fli--"

John stopped dead in his tracks the moment he opened the door. He had been right. It was not a candle nor a lantern that had caused light to escape into the hall, but rather it was a entire wall of flames. They clung to the drapes that hung from the fourposter bed, reaching up towards the ceiling and spreading along the wooden frame until it met the floor. The entire thing was engulfed in flames, and at the center of it all was Flint. He laid perfectly still and unmoving, strangely peaceful despite the hellish nightmare that surrounded him. Fortunately in this instance, John's feet were able to move more quickly than his mind. He rushed forward to snatch a vase of flowers from the dresser so that he could throw water to the roaring fire.

"Wake up," John cried desperately. Immediately he grabbed another vase to better try and douse the flames. "Wake up!" This time he all but shouted, and finally that was enough to rouse the man. If it hadn't he was prepared to chuck the piece of pottery against the wall. Perhaps even his head. Yet now he was awake and those widened eyes shot open, Flint all but scrambling off the bed as he so suddenly came to realize what was going on.

"The fuck...!" Flint swore. He tore the bedding from the mattress as he moved, using the thick quilt that had not yet caught to beat against the flames as he moved past them. John quickly joined him. There was no more water left, and so the blankets would have to do. That struck out at the flames, using what had been doused by the water to smother the curling orange tendrils that persisted. After what felt like several minutes, the only thing that yet remained was the smell of burned wood and billowing smoke.

The two stood perfectly still beside one another, their chests heaving from the exertion as they fought to regain their breaths from beneath the suffocating smoke. "What happened here?" Flint finally managed, his voice ragged. He gestured vaguely towards what remained of his bed. The thing had been reduced to a smouldering frame.

John shook his head slightly, his tongue reaching out to wet his lips as he struggled to find the words. His mind was still racing, his chest still gripped from the panic of it all. "I.. heard something," he struggled after a moment. "A laugh. It woke me from my sleep and then I followed it down here." Once more he shook his head. "You almost died in your own bed," he muttered in disbelief.

Beside him Flint's features had stolen into a stern expression. His hair was disheveled, his eyes no longer wide but thinned and calculating. "You didn't seeing anything? Anyone?" he questioned. His tone was unusually firm.

"No.." John answered honestly. "Nothing."

After a moment the man finally nodded. Suddenly he seemed to return from his thoughts and with a gentle hold he guided him towards one of the chairs. "Sit, John" he pressed gently. Within moments a blanket had been draped around his shoulders and those hands gripped his arms, the strength of it forcing his gaze to draw upwards. "Stay here, and don't make a sound." This time it was not a suggestion, but an order, and John offered a meek nod in return. Satisfied, Flint withdrew before raking his fingers through his hair. "I'll be back soon. Keep the door shut." Those green eyes settled on him for just a second, searching, before the man disappeared.

John released a steadying breath as he swallowed down the lump in his throat. His mind was still abuzz, his heart pounding erratically in his chest. What the hell had just happened? There was no ghost. There couldn't be. _Someone_ had tried to kill Flint tonight. Someone who had resided here long enough to give raise to chilling ghost stories. Eyes shut as he tried to shake the thoughts loose from his head. There was no point in trying to spin wild theories of this now. Instead he focused on calming himself so that his heart could return to its normal rhythm once more. Unfortunately, forcing himself to sit still was doing nothing to aid this, so instead he paced. He moved across the room, back and forth, before stopping in front of one of the windows. It was one that opened up the the estate's courtyard. Again, he saw a flickering of light and this time it was small and tame, surely coming from a lantern. In truth, he wasn't exactly surprised when he traced its movement up the winding stairs that led up to the tower. Whether it was from the guilty party or from Flint himself, it mattered not. Either way, whoever it was that resided up there was somehow linked, for if it _were_ the master's lantern lighting his path, he too held the same suspicion. John forced himself away from the window.

By the time Flint reappeared about an hour had flitted by. John had long since returned to the chair with the blanket still wrapped around his form. Blue eyes glanced upwards. Flint too seemed to have settled by now. His hair was no longer mussed and his tunic was once again buttoned and tucked into his trousers. Sure enough he held a lantern in his hand. "It settled," the man offered without meeting his gaze.

John's brows furrowed. "It's settled?" he repeated skeptically. "That's it?" he then asked, incredulous. "Someone tries to burn you alive and it's se--"

"John." The force of his tone alone was enough to make him fall silent. Still, it did little to suppress the way John's expression had hardened by doubt. Even so it went ignored. "You will not speak of this again, you understand me?" Flint continued. "You will talk of this to no one. Not to Max, not to Gates; no one. It will be forgotten."

Though John wished for nothing more than to continue this argument, the sharp gaze that was angled towards him made him think better of it. "Yes, Sir," he instead resigned with a sigh. All at once his exhaustion seemed to catch up to him. He rubbed at his brow, returning the quilt to the chair as he stood. "Goodnight, then." He was just making his way past him when his wrist was caught in a gentle grip.

"John." The way Flint now spoke his name was soft and nearly pleading. Despite his better judgement John glanced up ar him. The man's eyes were just as tender, just as seeking, as they moved over him. "Thank you," he murmured. He cleared his throat then before gesturing towards the burnt portion of his room. "For..."

"It was no problem, Sir," he clipped.

Flint shook his head with an exasperated chuckle. " _Sir_ is it again, then?" he asked softly. As he spoke he slowly turned his hand over in his own. Those fingertips trailed over his knuckles, moving to smooth against his palm in a way that made John's heart arrest in his chest.

Once again John found himself struggling for words. For something, anything, that would allow him to understand what was happening in this moment. That would allow him to better navigate this unfamiliar path. Yet the moment those green eyes raised to meet his own he knew that he didn't have to ask, for this path was actually not unfamiliar at all. He'd caught sight of that lingering lust and affection before. He had seen the strength of it in Billy's eyes, had hoped to see a trace of it in Flint's. There were times when he genuinely thought he did. When Flint's eyes would drop to his mouth, when an innocent touch would linger... He thought he witnessed something there, something that told of his mutual longing. Now... Now he _knew_ that's what he saw. It knocked into his chest with the force of a heavy blow that sent his heart racing once more. And based on the smile that curled at the edge of Flint's mouth, he could clearly feel the way his pulse rabbited beneath his fingers.

Still, Flint was cautious in his touch. He didn't blame him, truly, with so much that was at stake. Reputation, status; everything. It seemed that each of them was just as weary as the other. Though different in nature, they each stood on equally uneven ground. Yet when those eyes locked on his own, suddenly neither of them seemed to waver. There was a keenness there, a silent understanding that had existed all along beneath the surface, slowly growing both in strength and resolve. And when that chin dipped downward, those piercing eyes becoming heavy-lidded, John tilted his head to meet him halfway. The moment their lips touched it felt like the room had once again become enveloped in flames. They coursed through him, extending from the crown of his head to the very soles of his feet. When those fingers entangled themselves in his hair it felt just as he thought it would. Strong, soft, reassuring. They cradled the base of his skull, tilting John's head upwards and pulling him closer as teeth nipped against his lower lip, silently seeking permission.

John parted his lips without hesitation or delay, his own hands clutching at the fabric of Flint's tunic as their kiss deepened. It developed rapidly, moving forward until it was little more than searching lips and panting breaths. Eventually, though, it had to reach its end. Flint was the first to break away. His hands still cupped the side of John's face, the act proving necessary as he instinctively leaned forward to chase those lips. Only when he couldn't did those blue eyes open. Flint was peering down at him with that same reverence that fueled his dreams. Only now, it was obvious just how paltry his imagination could be in comparison to the real thing.

Flint's thumb was soft as it ghosted against his cheek, the touch guiding him forward so that he could press a kiss to his forehead. "You'd best get to bed, John.." Flint murmured after several long moments.

John swallowed thickly before offering a slow nod. "Right," he struggled, feeling strangely winded. "Goodnight.."

"Goodnight," Flint returned softly before their lips met once more. This time the kiss was far more innocent and, unfortunately, far more fleeting. Still, it stole his breath the very same.


	7. My Truest Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2nr2fyh)  
> 

It went without saying that John found it near impossible to return to sleep. Even if he truly believed Flint's reassurance that the matter was taken care of, even if he trusted that he was no longer in any danger, he could not ignore the way those eyes had bore into him. The way they had gazed upon him with not only longing and desire, but genuine affection. John was certainly no blushing virgin. He had experienced several heated trysts back at the orphanage, and while most of such encounters had been reserved to Billy, they had lacked that distinctive element. That one thing he hadn't even realized was missing, that he even wanted: Tenderness.

Billy had become quite important to him over the years, of that there was no doubt. They had been close friends and confidants. They shared everything with each other, they _trusted_ each other. But even so neither of them had ever cast the other such a glance. Each time they had come together it was sloppy and rushed. When their mouths melded together, palms dragging and tongues searching, their bodies pressed together so closely... It was always purely physical. A method to relieve their stress, both mental and physical, and simply enjoy the pleasure they could give the other. There was nothing more to it than that. They would sneak away for a fuck or a quick tug, and that was it. There were no soft kisses, no lingering touches, nothing. That was how they each preferred it.

The situation that was developing with Flint, however... It was different. God, was it so wonderfully different. Every fond look cast in his direction held within it a power he had never known possible. One that could steal his very breath and send his heart racing if it lingered a moment too long. There was no mistaking that the allure John first felt towards the man was physical in nature. How he had longed to drop to his knees so that he could taste him on his tongue. Repeatedly he had dreamt of spreading his legs and reveling in just how completely the man could fill him. He still did. Yet his desires had begun to evolve far past that of mere physical contact. They had been for a while now. For the first time in his life he craved genuine intimacy. For days spent lost in deep conversation and for innocent touches that often led to nothing more. The way Flint's fingers brushed against his own time and time again made his stomach flip in a way it never quite had before. He had quickly come to crave those gentle touches. They were soft, cautious, almost as if the man feared he were made of glass and would shatter if handled too roughly. It was certainly a stark contrast from the rough nature of their first few interactions. Then again, one's body always had a way of betraying the mind. Maintaining a stern mask and an even sharper tone was much simpler than guarding mannerisms and other ticks that one might not even be aware of.

John could only wonder if Flint was of the same mind. The way his gaze lingered and his eyes dropped lower to his mouth before quickly flitting away suggested that he did. Just as the way that he had come to bridge the distance between them, not just physically but emotionally as well. The longer they talked and the more they shared with one another, the more comfortable they became in the other's presence, and the closer they drew. Until finally those hands had cradled his face, thumbs gently stroking over the faint stubble along his jaw, before their lips melded together so perfectly. There had been an underlying heat there, certainly, but it was distinctly different than any kiss he had ever shared with Billy, or even the blushing maids from the orphanage. It was soft, slow. Unhurried in every way as they simply seemed content to explore the other. It was perhaps in part due to hesitation, for fear that the advancement would be rejected, but surely it stemmed from something else as well. For even after John had clutched the front of Flint's shirt to better hold him close, there was still no sense of urgency. Instead there was a deep yearning, almost as if Flint had been imagining this moment for just as long and just as keenly as he.

It didn't matter that John had been left utterly breathless by the time those lips parted from his own. He still felt as though it had been over all too quickly. The way his heart pounded in his ears and fire burned beneath his skin was maddening. Even that softened gaze Flint had then cast him caused something to smoulder deep within his chest. It was a feeling that was entirely new, yet was one he was certain he would never tire of. Still, he refused to give it a name. Instead he simply laid back against cooled sheets of his bed, breathing in the fresh night air escaping through the cracked window, and allowed the memory to replay in his mind again and again. He didn't dare think of the fire, he didn't dare wonder about the ghost or the person that surely hid beneath its guise. He would allow himself this short reprieve, to take solace in the memory of those soft lips and light touches, if only for a little while.

John didn't even realize that he had fallen asleep until his eyes opened to see sunlight streaming across the room. A hum rose from the back of his throat as he stretched back against the mattress, the notches in his spine popping from the motion. A smirk tugged almost lazily at his lips as the memory of the previous night returned to him. Well, the portion that had involved Flint's mouth against his own, at least. Yet it was fleeting. Such genuine smiles always were. Now that his mind was clear he could better realize the true brevity of the situation. Someone had tried to murder Flint in his own bed. Someone that likely he knew, that resided here in the estate, and for some reason was trying to protect. John couldn't make sense of any of it. There was perhaps a very small chance that the whole nightmare of a situation had been an accident, a coincidence. Perhaps a candle had merely fallen over, perhaps the laughter he had heard was of his own imagining. Perhaps this place truly was haunted. After all he had never doubted the reality of ghosts, that there were things existing in this world that couldn't be explained. Yet the way Flint had so vehemently swore him to secrecy on the matter suggested otherwise. He just couldn't understand _why._ In any case, he wouldn't get any answers lazing about in bed all day.

Based on the way the sun still hung low in the sky, it was likely only an hour or so past the time he usually began his day. While he certainly didn't have the time to spare for his usual morning walk, he supposed he could due without it for today. There was too much on his mind anyway. So instead John took his time in getting dressed, his thoughts mulling over all that had transpired. The wandering figure whose laugh had woken him so suddenly, the fire, the kiss... Yet his thoughts were interrupted the moment he opened the door and saw that something had been left for him.

A thick leather bound volume rested against the floorboards right in front of his room. There was no doubt that it had been placed there by Flint. After all, who else would leave books randomly lying about in wait? Still, John's brows were slightly furrowed as he stooped down to pick it up. The title read _La Galatea_ in elegant flowing script. While it was not uncommon for the man to lend him books that he thought he would enjoy, he usually did it in person. Perhaps he felt embarrassed by what had happened between them last night. As unrealistic a thought it was for such a man to feel ashamed by well, anything, he assumed it was a possibility. John flipped through the pages briefly and without really looking before plopping it on the dresser beside his bed. He'd look through it later. For now he simply longed for some warm food to fill his belly.

As John was making his way down the corridor he decided to stop before the painting Abigail had mentioned to him before. _The Mad Village._ Normally he passed it by without so much as giving it a second glance, and there was a reason for that. It was a rather disconcerting piece of artwork to say the least. If the dark tones and shadowed scenery weren't enough to form a knot in his stomach, the twisted figures depicted at its center certainly were. John had just managed to tear his yes away from it when he caught sight of Randall. As usual, the man appeared from behind the locked door leading to the stairwell that wound up to the tower. The room where he was assured no one resided and that remained perfectly empty, despite mounting evidence that insisted the contrary. And when the older man walked past his expression was just as tired and blank as usual.

"Little early to be doing laundry," John called after him without bothering to hide the hint of suspicion that colored his tone. He had never trusted Randall. It wasn't just that he was quiet and mostly kept to himself; there was nothing wrong with not being a people person, after all. It was merely that he had always seemed a bit... odd. Like he wasn't entirely there. A harmless detail when considered on its own, but after what had happened last night... After seeing _someone_ go up to that tower where he had only seen Randall come and go... It seemed his uncertainty had held merit from the very start.

"Hmph."

John's lips twitched into a frown at the inadequate response. Then again, had he truly expected anything less? If the circumstances were any different he would have been surprised to have been acknowledged at all. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure if he had ever heard anything more than a grunt from the man.

When John entered the main hall he saw Max giving instructions to Idelle and a few of the other maids. They held in their arms the bedding and curtains that had come from Flint's room; or rather, what remained of them. Most of the fabric had been burned or at the very least singed beyond repair.

"What happened?" John asked curiously, feigning innocence with relative ease. Of all the lies one could partake in, playing ignorant was by far the easiest.

Max's eyes rolled in exasperation before that expression gave way to a hard stare. "Mr. Flint decided to take it upon himself to increase my workload, naturally," she huffed. When John offered her little more than a quirked brow and a frown, she gestured towards the ruined sheets before continuing. "It seems he fell asleep reading by candlelight again. I've warned him about not doing that time and time again, yet he never listens. Fortunately he didn't get hurt."

"Strange," John murmured. While Max was nearly just as adept at deceiving as himself, he had come to know her well enough to get a hunch when he felt that he was being lied to. He weighed his next words very carefully. "Are you sure that's all it was? An accident?"

The woman's stare only hardened. And then there it was, that way her lips pursed into a firm line whenever she felt pressed or that her bluff was getting called out on. "Yes," she said then. The sharp edge in her tone warned him not to push any further, and he resigned with a nod. He would allow the subject to die, at least for a little while. If Max was lying, and to him of all people, there was surely a good reason for it. Still, he couldn't help but eye Randall as he moved past to gather what few linens could be recovered. At most it was a blanket or two, as well as the quilt Flint had wrapped around his shoulders to keep him warm.

"Strange indeed."

John couldn't help but be taken aback by the statement. Not just that someone was willing to agree with him at all, as this truly would seem like a simple accident to anyone who hadn't heard that laughter or seen Flint's stout reaction to it all, but especially because it had come from the man himself. The only thing that wasn't surprising was that Randall's tone was an exact mirror of that strangely empty expression.

Before John even had the opportunity to open his mouth, Randall continued. "Did you see anything?"

Now it was John's turn to steel a hard expression. "No," he answered honestly. "I'm afraid that I didn't see anything, as my door was shut and locked. I do believe I heard a laugh, though."

"Hmph," Randall more or less grunted once more. Then, those gray eyes shifting to meet his own, "You _should_ keep your door locked... Never know what harm may come from that ghost wanderin' the halls."

John's eyebrows knit together, the frown on his lips only deepening as he wasn't quite sure whether or not that was to be taken as a threat. Needless to say, he didn't have much time to think on it as Max's voice once again cut through the air. "Don't you have somewhere to be, John?" she inquired with a clipped tone. There was no doubt she was referring to Miss Abigail's lessons.

"I wished to speak with Mr. Flint first," he defended lightly, doing everything possible to keep the mounting frustration from darkening his tone.

"I'm afraid he's already gone."

"I-- Wait," John paused, shaking his head in disbelief. "What do you mean he's gone?"

Max quirked a brow at him. "I mean he left on another of his trips." Then, at John's apparently transparent expression, she continued. "I told you before that he comes and goes suddenly and without warning."

John's lips parted wordlessly as he struggled to wrap his mind around all of this. Why would Flint take off so suddenly? Was this about the fire that had nearly taken his life? No... Certainly not. Not after he had assured him so vehemently that the matter had been taken care of. And what's more, surely he wouldn't leave with a threat still wandering about the estate. Not if there was any potential for it to pose a danger to his ward or the staff. So then what? The two of them had become quite familiar with each other over the past several weeks. Surely if Flint had been planning this trip ahead of time he would have at least mentioned it, even if it had only been in passing. Could it be about the kiss the two of them had shared...? It seemed to be the only reasonable explanation. It also managed to account for the book that had been left right outside his doorway. If anything, he supposed he should take take comfort in the small offering. It suggested that despite the sudden disappearance, Flint was not intending to cut him off completely, that he perhaps simply needed to clear his head and work through his own issues. Still, he couldn't help but acknowledge the shadow that had darkened that empty space within his chest.

Max regarded him thoughtfully before speaking next. "I believe he mentioned something about the Guthrie's estate," she offered with a hand propped atop her hip. "It would be my guess that he'll be gone for at least a fortnight."

John's tongue reached out to wet his lip before he gave a faint nod. "Of course," he answered. Finally he then managed to come back from his thoughts and gave another, more convincing nod. "Excuse me."

* * *

Once more John found himself becoming completely enveloped in his work. He wasn't exactly certain why he was so bothered by the man's sudden disappearance. Just as Max had reiterated, she had told him just as much several times before. That was how the man usually operated. He traveled across the various countries of the globe, going from one place to another, and only returning home for a few weeks out of the year. How he had delusioned himself into thinking any differently was beyond him. The reason Flint had been such a constant presence these past several weeks had been due to his injury, nothing more. Even if they had become close enough to develop a friendship, even if they had finally acted on that physical attraction lingering beneath the surface, that wasn't enough to change anything. If John was naive enough to think otherwise for even a second, he was certainly more of a fool than he had ever thought.

John attributed his disappointment, and his hurt if he were being completely honest with himself, to the unfamiliarity of such circumstances. There was a reason why he had never allowed himself to become emotionally invested in another since Muldoon. Doing so only resulted in getting hurt. Even with Billy he had taken care to hold him at arms length, at least in certain regards. Yet with Flint it had somehow seemed different. He had allowed himself to believe that and lowered his guard, and here he was again. 

What time John didn't spend with Miss Abigail, either teaching the usual subjects or planning his their future lessons, were spent with his nose in a book. For now he had set aside his sketchbook, for whenever he allowed his mind to wander his thoughts would always return to Flint. The first few days of his absence he had sketched out several portraits of the man without even realizing it. Soon he even had to abandon his morning walks. Each time he set out just as the sun was rising, he couldn't find it in himself to enjoy the fresh air and the scent of grass and budding flowers. Instead, all he could focus on was the loss of that man walking beside him.

It was maddening. So instead of allowing his mind to wander free and torment him with thoughts and images of that grouchy ginger, he read. Mostly he returned to a few of his favorite novels he had discovered within the library. Eventually, however, he remembered the book Flint had left for him. Or rather, his bitterness had finally given way to curiosity. As with all the other pieces of literature the man had suggested to him, he was certainly not disappointed. La Galatea quickly proved to be both complex and captivating. It revolved around the themes of social class and unlikely friendships, as well as love and desire. It follows the story of two main characters by the names of Elicio and Erastro, both of whom are deeply in love with their mutual friend Galatea. Despite their rivaling affections, they refuse to allow it to come between their own friendship. While it was certainly an interesting read, John could only wonder why Flint had been so pressed for him to read it. He could have left the text in the schoolroom or the drawing room, both places were he spent ample amounts of time, yet he had left it right outside his door. As if to make absolutely certain that he would see it and read it in his absence. One day he finally had his answer.

John had spent the past hour or so meandering through the library in search of a new book to read. Unfortunately, none of them appeared remotely interesting, save for the ones that he had already gone through. It was then that he remembered the offer Flint had extended to use his personal collection within his study. It was an offer he had never taken him up on before, but now that he was away he figured he may as well.

Though the amount was certainly fewer than the library, it somehow seemed that Flint's collection was more varied. Not just in subject matter but in the languages as well. Most of the texts were written in English of course, but there were several in Spanish, French, and even a few he didn't even recognize. Still, nothing seemed to be enough to strike his interest. He supposed that he could re-read one of the volumes the master had suggested.

It was then that John noticed the familiar red leather binding, buried beneath a small stack of texts among the charts and papers that littered Flint's desk. He recognized it immediately for what it was: Marcus Aurelias' Meditations. He would remember that deep scarlet hue and decorated spine anywhere. It was by far one of his favorites, and despite Flint's warning to not disturb anything on his desk, he found himself unburrying it nonetheless.

John's curiosity piqued as he turned the book over in his hands. While it was certainly Marcus Aurelias, it was also not the exact one that he had lent him before. Though the spine was certainly worn from frequent use it was still in much better condition. There were no scuffs along the corners and the cover was void of any scratches or other imperfections. This copy had certainly been given great care, and when he opened the front cover he saw why. There, at the center of the first page, laid an inscription.

 _James,_  
_My truest love._  
 _Know no shame._  
 _-T.H_


	8. Know No Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=28meaz4)   
> 

John peered down at the elegant inscription with a mixture of confusion and disbelief that, suddenly, gave way to a shred of genuine understanding. Still, he couldn't help but shake his head as he read over the flowing script once more. He couldn't believe it. Even so there was no doubting that the signed initials belonged to none other than Flint's long-deceased friend, Thomas Hamilton. It all seemed to fall into place now. There was a reason why Flint had left him _La Galatea_ for him to read through during his absence. It wasn't because he thought it would prove interesting or enjoyable, nor was it even to better keep him preoccupied in his spare time so that he wouldn't get into more trouble. Instead Flint had been leaving behind pieces to the puzzle, so that perhaps one day he could truly come to understand the story he had shared with him of the Hamiltons. Not just of who Thomas and Miranda had been, but of the exact nature of their relationship together. They had not merely been close friends or colleagues, but rather they had been lovers. At least he and Thomas had been. That was why Flint's expression appeared so haunted every time he gazed upon his ward. She held the combined features of his true love.

Whether or not Flint had also been romantically involved with Miranda, he couldn't be certain. Yet the way he had also spoken of her with such heartache and reverence hinted that he had. It would only make sense, given the context of _La Galatea_. The two friends hadn't allowed their shared affections for Galatea to come between them; instead, it had only strengthened their own relationship with each other. The thought alone was a wonderful one. To share such love and affection with not just one person, but two... He couldn't imagine. Yet the reminder of the tragedy that had followed caused John's throat to tighten. Flint had loved, yes, and he had been loved in return. And in the end he had lost them both abruptly and within a short period of time. Not only that, but he had been handed the responsibility of a child that would forever remind him of it.

Provided that John was correct about all this, it was no wonder how Flint came to be the man that stood before him. The harsh mask, the anger and the bitterness that simmered beneath the surface, the way he fought to keep everyone at a firm distance. Even his cavalier attitude towards the religion that so many followed blindly and with fear. With all that he had lost there was no questioning why Flint had renounced his faith, had he any to begin with. After all, John had stopped believing in a higher power the moment he awoke to find Muldoon lying cold and motionless beside him. Though their own separate tragedies differed greatly, they had each had people torn away from them. Friends, lovers... He supposed in the end it made little difference, as each had still shaped them into who they now were. Perhaps that was why they had come to get along together so well. They were kindred spirits.

John swallowed thickly as he allowed his fingers to ghost across the page. _James_... The feeling that now brewed within the recesses of his chest was a strange one. It was not jealousy, certainly not, but something else... Something far kinder. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was awe, thinking of how someone --or rather two someone's-- had once known the privilege of addressing Flint by his given name. Briefly he wondered what it would feel like to have that name fall from his own lips. _James._ The moment he thought on it too long that sensation within his chest tightened a noticeable degree. Swiftly John shut the leather bound book and went to return it to its home among the papers and other books that were piled atop his desk.

* * *

 

John felt each passing day of Flint's absence more keenly than the last. He couldn't help the way his thoughts kept returning to the man. Eventually they began to wander not only to him, but to Thomas and Miranda Hamilton as well. Of what they had meant Flint, of what he had meant to them in turn. He wondered just how different a man he may have been back then, before their sudden loss had hardened his heart. He thought of that smile he had caught mere glimpses of before and how it may have looked back then, wide and genuine and without reserve. He wondered if it was still there, only hidden.

But it was not just that. Though it had taken a little over a week for John to admit it to even silently to himself, he... missed him. He missed Flint's company during their early morning strolls about the grounds. He missed the way he had come to join him and Abigail during their piano lessons, not only to teach but to flaunt his own skill with the instrument. John missed their discussions of literature, their debates over philosophy. The way Flint's cheek would twitch whenever it became particularly heated, occasionally bordering on becoming an actual argument. The curl of a smirk when he admired a point of view he had offered, one that he had not considered before. The weight of those eyes as they rested on him, how they would peer into his very soul and find an equal there.

It didn't take long for the others to pick up on the developing storm that was John's foul temperament. While he had always been quite gifted at steeling his expression into that cheerful mask, for some reason it had become noticeably harder as of late. Perhaps it was because of the close he had gradually forged with Max and the others here. That layer of trust had caused him to lower his guard, if only to the point where he felt comfortable wearing his genuine emotions from time to time. Perhaps it was simply due to his lack of usual energy concerning the matter. After all, anger and frustration were always more difficult to bury beneath a smile. They wore on one in a way that other emotions usually didn't.

It wasn't until even Miss Abigail inquired about his sullen mood that John realized just how transparent he had become. With his usual convincing smile, John assured her that he was quite alright and had simply been feeling under the weather these past few days. A lazy of a lie if there ever was one, but Abigail seemed to accept it nonetheless. For once he was quite grateful for her naivety, for it kept her from seeing through him with the same clarity as Max and Idelle. When they had been offered them the same lie, it have been met with a rather incredulous eye roll from one and a ringing laugh from the other.

"You miss him, don't you?" Idelle dared to ask late one evening. "Mr. Flint, I mean." There was a sly, knowing smile upon her lips and a familiar light in her eyes. The abrupt question prompted Max to raise her gaze towards him as if even she were genuinely curious about the answer.

John offered a derisive snort. "Go back to you embroidery, or whatever the hell it is that you're doing," he clipped. He couldn't help his sour mood, especially when the day's dreary weather had only added to his own overcast skies. Though _The Odyssey_ had laid open on his lap for the past half hour, not once had he peered down at its ink-laden pages. He didn't have the concentration nor the desire.

Idelle only chuckled. "If only you were always this transparent," she relented after a moment. "Dealing with you would prove _far_ easier." When John did little more than sigh and offer a halfhearted glare in return, she continued with a widening smirk. "So you're not troubled by his absence at all?" she pressed, insistent.

"No," John answered sternly. Despite his best efforts, he feared the downward twitch of his lip was more than enough to give him away.

"Really?" Max asked then. It was the first time she had decided to speak up about the matter since the last time she had warned John not to delve too close to the man. While he was still somewhat puzzled by her sheer resolve to keep him from getting too involved, he had long given up trying to push for a satisfying answer. If she wanted him to believe that it was merely because of their differing social status --and their gender, of course--, he would. Yet he felt there was far more to it than that. Still, before he could delve too far into his various theories about the subject, Max's next words swiftly tore him from his thoughts. "Because a letter arrived from Mr. Flint just this afternoon, stating when he could be expected to return."

Immediately John grew still at the news. It was almost as if every muscle in his body had suddenly grown tense at the thought of Flint's return. It was not a reflex brought about by fear or apprehension, not as it had been during his childhood, but excitement. With poorly masked hesitation he swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat. "When?" he asked. His voice was raw in a way that sounded foreign even to himself.

At this even Max couldn't seem to withhold her amusement. "Within three days, give or take for weather or other such delays." When John caught her eyes they were glinting in a way that only hers could. Not only knowing, but mischievous. She had always seen right through him and now was certainly no exception, save for the fact that Idelle was now also present to view his true emotions as they were so coyly drawn into the light.

John measured his next words carefully, yet before he could even open his mouth he found Idelle laughing at his expense once more. "You are so far gone on him, John," she tsked with a shake of her head, her dark brown locks spilling past her shoulders as she chuckled once more. "You look after him in the same manner a drunken sailor swoons over a whore in his lap."

John could feel the heat that rose from the accusation before it could even darken his cheeks."You--" He shook his head then, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

Idelle huffed. "Please, John. Trust me when I say I know that look."

"Even _I_ know that look," Max added swiftly and with a stern tone. Her gaze had once again lowered to the embroidery resting across her lap, her brows knit together in deep concentration as she worked. Even so, he could just barely make out the faint amusement that colored her words.

Suddenly, John shut the book a bit harder than necessary before tucking it beneath his arm. "Goodnight," he bid them both as he stood. He found it fairly difficult to ignore the pair of eyes that had settled on him from the outburst, if it could even be considered as such. Yet as he slipped from the kitchen their curious looks went forgotten. Instead all that captured his mind was the knowledge that Flint would soon be returning home. That, and the way the mere thought of it nearly sent his heart tripping over itself in a fervent patter.

The next few days passed by at a grueling pace. John couldn't find it within himself to muster up the concentration for anything other than his lessons with Abigail. The minute they had finished for the day his imagination would take control with renewed fervor. While he still spent much of his free time at the piano bench, with every song he played he thought back to how it had been with Flint sitting beside him. He remembered the gentle press of that leg against his own, the seemingly innocent yet lingering touch of his hand. Without fail, these thoughts always managed to bring him back to that kiss. The press of those lips, soft and searching, as those hands so gingerly cradled his face. That strangely tender moment shared between them that had caused even the fire to disappear into the background, as if it were some trivial thing.

John tried not to think on the potential complications that would follow Flint's approaching return. He tried not to consider the thought that the events of that night had potentially driven a wedge between the two of them. For they had both lost sight of their differing position and circumstance, and with it their control. He tried not to worry that Flint would come to consider that impulsive moment, those few minutes where both of their walls had crumbled to dust at their feet, as a mistake. He tried not to think on any of it. Instead, the only thoughts he allowed within his mind were those memories he recalled with a crystal's clarity, as well as the hope that when Flint did return, he would get to taste those lips once more.

It was Miss Abigail who first alerted him to the master's return. They had been relaxing in the drawing room for the afternoon when the sound of hooves beating against the cobblestones interrupted the fragile silence. Immediately Abigail rushed over to the opened window, John barely even having the opportunity to ask who it was before her voice cut through the air. "Mr. Flint!" she beamed. "Il est enfin revenu! Et.. Ah, and it appears he has a mademoiselle with him."

John frowned slightly as he moved to join her beside the window. Surely enough, when he peered down there were two horses trotting across the courtyard towards the stables. He recognized Flint immediately. The flash of auburn that escaped beneath that beaten old hat was unmistakable, as was the black and brown mutt that loyally followed behind his steed. The second horse was one he hadn't seen before. It was a beautiful spotted mix of white and gray, and the woman riding it appeared just as fair beneath that head of blond hair. It was tied back into a simple bun, practical for riding as it placed convenience above style. And as she dismounted he could see the boots that were worn beneath her skirt. Just as the rest of her manner of dress, it echoed both comfort and simplicity instead of the prim fashions most noblewomen often wore. It was curious to say the least.

"Do you know who she is?" John asked after a few moments.

"That is Miss Guthrie," Abigail explained as they watched the two disappear towards the stables. "I think her father owns a trading business in London."

John nodded slowly. So that was who Flint had gone to see. Based on the brief glimpse he had caught of this Miss Guthrie, he gathered that she worked alongside her father. After all, she carried herself with the same confidence and independence as any businessman. However, he couldn't help but wonder why she was here of all places. Perhaps the two of them were colleagues, maybe even friends... Then again, maybe they were lovers, just as he and Thomas had been. This time the knot that gripped his chest was unmistakable for what it was: Jealousy. John released a steady breath as he sought to smother it beneath the weight of his usual guise. That practiced mask that had once covered him from head to toe, yet had recently developed a noticeable crack. He needed to get better control over his wandering imagination. Even if they were somehow involved, it was of no consequence as it had nothing to do with him. It didn't jeopardize his employment here, nor would it likely ever impact him on a personal level. And yet even as he thought these things... he could only begin to wonder if he should have better heeded Max's warning. Perhaps he should have maintained his distance. For even if this woman has nothing to do with him, the uncertainty that had gripped him over the matter could not be ignored. He _cared_ about who she was. More than that, he cared about who she was to _Flint_.

There was a reason why John typically took great care to keep others at an arm's length. Making the mistake of becoming emotionally invested with someone was likely to turn you into a fool. It only served to knock firm heads from steady shoulders. That was why he had never become romantically involved with anyone, not even with Billy. They had been close friends, confidants, and while they had fucked on several occasions, they had never been lovers. There was no attachment there, not like this. And now, with that ugly emotion weighing down on his chest and pressing the air from his lungs, he had never felt more out of control. It was maddening.

By the time John and Abigail finally made their way out of the drawing room the main hall was all but buzzing with activity. Fortunately for him, Flint was nowhere to be seen among the servants flitting about. With a sigh of relief and a gentle pat against her shoulder, he sent the girl to go off with Mrs. Mapleton. Though she desperately wanted to welcome Flint back from his journey, he did not. Instead he thought it may be best to avoid him for a while, or at the very least until that obnoxious fluttering within his chest decided to finally grow still. When he wandered into the kitchens he did so just in time to catch the start to what he assumed would be a rather intriguing argument.

"--you alright?"

"Of course I'm alright," Max clipped as she handed a basket of fresh eggs off to one of the servants. Even with her back turned, he could sense that she more flustered than he had ever seen her.

"And you didn't know that she would be coming here?" Idelle pressed, her arms lightly folded against her chest. "That she and Flint--"

" _No,"_ Max nearly shouted. When she finally turned her hands were placed atop her hips, her lips parting though whatever words she was about to speak stopped short, as she apparently just now took notice of John. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she angled a glare in his direction. Swiftly, she redirected her attention back towards Idelle. "I'm fine," she repeated, her tone signalling the end of this discussion. "Eleanor and I parted ways a long time ago; she can do whatever she wishes." With that, she grabbed an armful of folded tablecloths and napkins and marched out of the room.

Only once John was certain she was out of earshot did he speak up. "Eleanor?" he asked with an arched brow.

Idelle gave a modest roll of her eyes. "Miss Guthrie," she reiterated as she went about gathering a few things from the opened cupboard. "Years ago, she and Max were _lovers_ ," she then dolled out with that teasing smirk.

John scoffed with a slight shake of his head. "I don't believe it."

The woman only shrugged. "No skin off my nose. In any case, I'd steer clear of Max for a day or two. They haven't seen each other since their falling out, and despite what she says, she's not that unshakeable."

"What happened between them, exactly?" John couldn't help his curiosity, mostly due to the fact that he still had difficulty believing all this. Max having a relationship with someone of nobility, and a woman, no less. Then again, with his own fervent dreams of dropping to his knees to take Flint into his mouth, he wasn't exactly one to talk.

Idelle appeared to think for a moment, as if finally considering whether or not it would be wise to gossip about such a topic. However, the apparent inner turmoil was fleeting at best. "Before she came here to Thornfield Hall, Max worked closely with the Guthries," she explained. "After some years, she and Eleanor became involved. Long story short, they had the opportunity to run away together, only for Eleanor to choose the family business instead."

John frowned, the expression only deepening when he recalled something Idelle had mentioned just earlier. "What was that you were saying before?" he then inquired. "About Miss Guthrie and Mr. Flint?" Only then did Idelle visibly hesitate. It seemed she had somehow forgotten the way she had persistently teased him for his prolonged gazes after the master. 

"Mr. Flint has just told us that he would like to host a party tomorrow evening. These things are usually quite ornate. Drinks, dancing, music, not to mention entertaining guests for several days afterwards," Idelle finally said. "Given that all of Miss Guthrie's family will be in attendance, and that Mr. Flint has never before taken interest in such an event... We think there may be an engagement announcement sometime soon."

John's jaw locked into place as he fought to keep any genuine emotion from coloring his expression. An engagement... "I see," he stated simply once he had finally recovered his voice. He then lifted his shoulder in a shrug before offering his usual confident and convincing smile. "That's quite short notice," he lamented, ignoring the latter portion of the news completely. "What can I do to help?"

John spent the next several hours assisting the others with the preparations for tomorrow. There was a dining room to be cleared, a table to be dusted and polished, linens to be folded, and candles and other decorations to be arranged. Though Thornfield was certainly quite stately, there was much to be done before it would be fitting to receive guests for several days of entertainment. The only thing John wasn't permitted to help with was the cooking. At least not after he had nearly caused a small kitchen fire while trying to help Gates with the spliced pig. After that he was all but thrown out if the kitchens to instead run errands about the estate. However, even that task eventually ran the course of its usefulness in terms of occupying his troubled mind. By the time the sun had set below the horizon there was nothing more that could be done for the day.

John's mind couldn't help the way his mind wandered as he traveled down the halls. Supposedly Flint and the Guthrie woman have both been holed up within the privacy of his study since their return. Whether they were discussing business or other such matters, he couldn't be certain. He tried not to think on it too much either way. He didn't want to imagine the two of them spending time together in any context. In fact he had gone so far as to avoid that particular corner of the estate entirely. It only served to heighten his surprise when he heard that familiar voice call out to him.

"John."

John's heart stuttered within his chest the moment that soft timbre met his ears. It seemed that Flint always had that effect on him when speaking his name with such a kind tone. Considering the long weeks he had suffered his absence, he felt the impact of it even more than usual. Yet the moment he turned to see that woman at his side he was certain that any trace of genuine emotion fled his expression. Fingers fidgeted restlessly at his side as the two made their way towards him. It was not from the command of Flint's presence, not anymore, but rather from the way Miss Guthrie was so carefully regarding him. Judging him, measuring him up.

"John," Flint spoke easily, "I would like to introduce you to Miss Eleanor Guthrie. She runs a rather successful trading business in London alongside her father."

The woman smirked slightly with a roll of her eyes. While she did seem amused by the flattery she was overall unimpressed. "And you must be John Silver," she guessed, cutting Flint off and grasping his hand in a firm shake before he could continue. "A pleasure. Flint, we'll continue this later?" She didn't wait for a response before offering a single nod and going on her way. John meant to follow suite, his head dipping low to avoid that gaze as he moved past, when once again that tone gave him pause.

"John, a moment if you please."

John needed a moment to collect himself before he could turn to face him. Now that Eleanor was gone his expression appeared unusually worn, tired. 

"A few weeks have passed since we last saw each other," Flint noted.

"Yes," John agreed with an indignant tilt of his chin. "I must say I've rather enjoyed the peace and quiet." If he had so much as blinked he would have missed the smirk that lifted at the edge of the man's mouth.

"Yes, well... There was some business that needed tending to."

"Such as an engagement?" John couldn't help the sharp edge in his tone.

At this Flint's carefully crafted expression faltered. Those eyes widened briefly before leaving his own to instead aim a glare at the wall. Still, John found his glaze lowering to his mouth as that tongue reached out to wet his lips. Eventually Flint was able to gather enough of his thoughts and so he cleared his throat. "I've only returned some hours ago, and already the household has fallen into petty gossip," he muttered.

"So it's not true, then?" It seems John had lost all control over his mouth at this point. The talking back, the questions; he had no business with either of them.

Flint shifted on his feet. "I must admit these rumors do hold some merit." His thumb rotated the ring on his forefinger as he spoke, his back straighting just as a predator's would when feeling threatened. The question that then fell from his lips left him speechless. "Do you find me handsome, John?"

John stuttered at the question. The uncouth and spontaneous nature of it caught him off guard completely, so much so that he couldn't help the _no_ that was blurted out. John's eyes promptly squeezed shut as he sighed. The idiocy of his response was almost painful. Fortunately the way Flint chuckled helped to ease his mind, but nothing more-so than that flash of white as he grinned that wolfish smile.

"Still," Flint considered after a moment, "Being worth thirty thousand pounds has a way of softening the features of even the hardest men. Nothing has been settled yet, of course... But an estate such as this needs a proper heir in order to survive. A dowry to help it flourish. And what's more," Flint murmured, his gaze lingering on John's lips before returning to his eyes, "It's come to my attention that people are beginning to talk."

John's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed down the lump in his throat. Even without that look in those eyes he would have known what he was referring to. For such a wealthy man to remain a bachelor would certainly raise questions, especially for one as handsome as Flint. One could only dole out excuses for so long before society began to question the true reason as to why they refused to take a wife. It was one he knew well. Ever since that gaze began to linger on him he had a hunch. Yet it wasn't until those lips captured his own in such a tender kiss, until he peered down at the inscription from Thomas Hamilton, that he knew for sure.

John tried to ignore the way his mouth had suddenly grown parched. "I finished reading _La Galatea_ ," he offered then, his voice scratching just slightly as he sought not to change the subject, but to coax it in a more direct and honest direction.

Those green eyes searched over his expression before Flint finally gave a slow nod. "I see." He then cleared his throat. "I still have some business to discuss with Miss Guthrie, but I gather I'll be in  the study rather late into the night. If you wish to discuss it." He seemed to remember something then. "Ah, I almost forgot." Reaching into the folds of his jacket he retrieved a small book which he then held out to him.

John hesitated slightly before accepting the volume and turning it over in his hands. It was a bit larger than his palm, the spine thicker than his thumb, and was covered with a rich black leather. His eyes raised in silent questioning.

"A sketchbook," Flint explained. "For you," he then added as his confused expression persisted.

Sure enough the pages within were blank as he flipped through it. More than that they were perfectly smooth and heavier than the parchment he was accustomed to. It was certainly of a higher quality. A charcoal pencil also hugged the edge of the binding, secured in place by a leather loop. Surely this gift had been quite expensive.

John didn't know what to say. After all he hadn't much experience with gifts. "Thank you," he stuttered after regaining his voice. Flint only nodded. That gaze lingering a few breaths more before finally flitted away as Flint retreated down the hall. John watched him go. Unlike Flint, he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the other man.

* * *

 

Thornfield Hall had fallen into complete silence by the time John made his way down the darkened corridors. Unlike the last time he had wandered the halls this late at night, he did so with the aid of a candle. He had no interest in getting lost this time, ghost or no. Briefly he had thought of brewing himself a cup of chamomile tea to help settle his nerves, but had thought better of it. Now, as he heard the creak of a turning doorknob, he certainly wished he had, if only for the fact that it would have avoided this awkward situation. For it was not Flint who now slipped out the door leading to his study, nor was it some murderous ghost; instead, it was Miss Guthrie. She was still clad in the leather jacket and skirt he had spotted earlier. Compared to the loose shirt and trousers he now wore, she was far more modestly dressed than he. The lantern she held illuminated the smug smirk set on her lips as she quirked a brow.

John's mouth opened wordlessly as he struggled to think up some excuse for why he was here. Yet before he could Eleanor simply rolled her eyes and moved past him without offering a single word. Even so he could feel the heat that rushed to fill his cheeks. Surely she thought he was skulking around so that he could catch Flint alone. By all intents and purposes, he looked like someone seeking a secret, late-night affair. Then again... he supposed such a summation wasn't actually too far off. They had spent numerous evenings discussing literature and other matters, but that had been done in more open areas of the estate. Certainly not in the intimate setting of his private study, and certainly not by what had more or less by a suggested invitation. What's more, _La Galatea_ was no ordinary text. Not if he were reading into it correctly, that it was somehow related to his relationship with the Hamiltons.

John gave himself a few moments to settle his thoughts before slipping into Flint's study. The man was hunched over his desk just as he always was. Only when the door clicked shut behind him did Flint finally raise his gaze. Those eyes traveled over him slowly, his knuckles grazing the underside of his chin as he appeared to be lost in thought. Suddenly he seemed to come back into himself and stood.

"Ah, there you are," Flint murmured as he rounded the desk so that he could fetch an amber bottle from the shelf. He then preceded to pour them each a glass of two fingers of whiskey. "So you finished the book I left for you?" Flint questioned without meeting his eyes. "I always found it to be quite the compelling read..."

"You loved him, didn't you?" John interrupted. "Thomas Hamilton?" Flint had always been unusually interested in prodding at his thoughts when it came to his favorite pieces. He wanted to know his thoughts, the conclusions he had drawn and how he got there. Usually John enjoyed such chatter. The debates, the sharing of ideas. Now, however, he merely wished to get to the point. To see if he was in fact correct about all this. Based on the way Flint paused, his expression melding into an unreadable one, he was. And so he pressed further. "He was your Galatea... Both you and Miranda were in love with him."

Though it was surely only a matter of seconds, it felt like an eternity before Flint spoke again. He corked the bottle before returning it to the table and handing John his glass. "I must admit.." he began tentatively, his tongue reaching out to wet his lips, "I didn't expect you to arrive to such a conclusion so quickly..." He tossed back his own drink before touching his hand to the desktop. He tapped against it a few times almost lazily.

"To be honest, I had a little assistance in the matter." Flint's brow raised in curiosity and John nodded towards the pile of books atop the desk. "Marcus Aurelias' _Meditations..._ I came across the inscription there." When the muscle in the man's jaw jumped, his lips pressing into a frown, he continued so that he could explain himself. "I recognized the binding. I didn't realize it was a different book-- well, a different copy."

Flint released a steady breath, his tongue moving over his teeth as he pressed both palms against the desk. "You're right on all accounts," he spoke lowly after several moments. His eyes were drooped, his gaze aimed at some random point among the clutter. "I loved him dearly. We both did..." He thumbed at the ring on his finger before managing to continue. "I loved Miranda as well, but what Thomas and I shared... It was distinctly different."

"Will you tell me about it?" John wondered softly. He had never known of love, and he couldn't deny that he was overwhelmingly curious as to how such a complicated relationship even got started.

Flint answered with a nod before refilling his glass. John still working on his own, and the bottle was placed between them for when he wanted more. And with that he began his tale, telling John about how they had met and become involved. This time, including all the controversial details that he had purposefully omitted before. While Flint had been formally introduced to Thomas by his father days before he even met Miranda, she was the one that he became sexually involved with first. Flint told him that it had felt... normal. Well, as normal as having an affair with a married woman could possibly be. As he and Thomas began working more closely together... Something changed. They became friends, confidants. He began feeling a draw he hadn't quite experienced before. Not with Miranda, not with anyone. Then one night he intervened on an argument Thomas was having with his father. A loud, arrogant, pompous excuse for a man. When Alfred Hamilton finally left --after Flint himself telling him to _get the fuck out_ , which John found great amusement in--, there was no mistaking what he had come to feel for Thomas. When the man looked at him.. He saw nothing but love and affection in those steel gray depths. Then, almost hesitantly, Thomas kissed him. There at the table, right in front of Miranda, and Flint found himself returning it. In that moment, Flint then expressed, everything felt.. right. As though someone had finally lit a candle to illuminate the darkness that had surrounded him for so long. He _found_ himself through Thomas.

"Then to lose them in such a way.." Flint's voice was a mere rasp as he emptied the rest of the bottle into their glasses. Though the man had thrown back several more drinks than he, he still stood tall, unwavering. The only telling sign that he had been drinking at all was the warmth in his cheeks, and perhaps the way his hands remained resting against the table.

_To lose them in such a way..._

John gave a slight shake of his head as a thought occurred to him then. "They didn't pass away from an illness, did they?" he asked, fighting against the fog that filled his mind so that he could concentrate. "The way you had told me they did. Before, by the river?" Flint's jaw twitched in response, his gaze trained downward as he gave a single shake of his head in a silent _no_.

Flint finished the last of the amber whiskey before he continued. "No... Alfred Hamilton," he continued, nearly spitting the name, "Somehow, he found out about our relationship. It enraged him, the scandal of it all... He killed them both."

John's expression fell as he processed all of this. Finally he released a steadying breath before shaking his head. His lovers had been murdered... That was how Flint had become, well... Flint. Why he was so closed-off and distant, so angry and bitter. He would be too, had he been dealt such a tragedy. "I don't know what to say..."

"You don't have to say anything," Flint answered with a vague gesture of his hand. "You asked me how it began, how it ended, and I felt you were entitled to an answer.. To the truth."

Still, John couldn't find it within himself to just leave it at that. He never could, at least not with Flint. "I appreciate that," he eventually settled on. "And I am genuinely sorry..." The effects of the liquor allowed only a moment's hesitation before he was brave enough to touch Flint's hand with his own. The man peered up at him as he traced over his fingers, just barely ghosting over a few curious scars that marked his knuckles.

"What do you see in me now?" Flint asked gently. "Now that you know the truth. Do you see me as the monster so many others do? The cruel man that hates his ward? That abandons her?"

John shook his head. "No," he answered honestly, his brows furrowing. "I never did. I look at you, and I see a trace of beauty hidden beneath that hard exterior."

Flint's lip twitched slightly before giving way to that faint, predatory smile. "Take care not peer too closely," he warned, "Otherwise you may not find anything beautiful at all."

John couldn't believe there to be any truth in those words. Not after seeing the way Flint's features had warmed as he spoke of Thomas and Miranda, how his eye had lit when he so effortlessly described their love for one another. Not after that expression had twisted in anguish and anger as he recounted their deaths with a pained voice. Especially not when those greens eyes gazed up at him in such a way now. Soft, unguarded, and so full of longing. He was so lost in it that it took a moment for John to notice the thumb that grazed against the inside of his throat, tracing along his pulse before moving to tilt his chin, coax him closer.

The moment their lips met it felt as if it were that first night in Flint's chambers all over again. John felt the kiss with the force of a kick to the chest, the press of those lips reigniting the embers that had smouldered within him for during his long absence. When that tongue ran along his bottom lip John opened up without hesitation, fingers clutching at Flint's shirt as the man licked into his mouth. The press of that tongue against his own was maddening. An intricate dance of pushing tongue and nipping teeth, a gentle to and fro, as they each fought for dominance only to surrender it back to the other. John reveled in the taste of whiskey on Flint's tongue, the scent of cigars and leather on his skin. He sighed into his open mouth as the trace of stubble scraped against his face, the faint burn of it sending a line of heat straight to his cock.

When Flint broke away he did so only to press his forehead against his own. They were both panting, John's lips red and swollen as those eyes bore into him. They were hesitant, questioning, and yet the black of his pupils nearly eclipsed that vibrant shade of green. John tilted his chin upwards, eyes closing briefly before he caught Flint's lips once more. Fingers tugged at the folds of his clothing in a silent plea of _more_ and _please._ Flint seemed to only hesitate for a moment before their kiss gained new furor. Surprisingly rough hands --likely from frequent horseback riding-- cradled John's head as he pulled him even closer. They entangled themselves in his hair, thumbs massaging at the base of his scalp before tilting his head back with a gentle pull.

John released a shuddered gasp as that mouth latched onto his throat. He clutched at Flint's hair at the sharp sting of a bite against the slope of his shoulder. Flint worried the skin between his teeth, alternating between soft licks and fierce sucking that sent blood pooling to the surface. John moaned softly at the feel of it. At the way he kissed and sucked along his collarbone before nosing against the side of his neck, burying his face against his hair so that he could breathe in the scent of him. And suddenly that hot mouth wasn't the only thing touching him.

While one of Flint's hands remained entangled in his mess of black curls, the other hand taken to wandering over the expanse of his body. John gasped as that tongue pressed down on the purpling bruise at the base of his neck. A shiver ran through him as Flint pushed up his shirt so that the cool night air could kiss against his skin. Flint teased at his nipple, John feeling the man smirk against his throat as it pebbled so quickly beneath the pad of his thumb. When he gave it a sharp tug he cried out. Flint chuckled against his lips, the soft warning of, "Quiet, John..." reminding him of just where they were. When Flint teased his other nipple John did his best to remain quiet, the only sound coming from him in the form of panted breaths. Yet when that same hand delved between his legs, Flint slowly rubbing his hardened length through his trousers, he found it nearly impossible to suppress a groan.

It felt as though every inch of him was alight with fire. John's fingers clutched at the back of Flint's neck, steadying himself as best he could as that hand moved against him. He could feel the heat of his palm as if it were directly touching his skin. His hips hitched forward of their own volition, seeking friction, seeking _more._ The edge of the desk bumped against him as he was guided backwards. Flint's fingers tucked themselves into his trousers, pushing them down to his knees before helping him to sit perched against the tabletop.

Suddenly that mouth was claiming his own once more. John all but melted into it, fingers clutching and body quivering as Flint finally took his length into his hand. He gave it a slow, purposeful stroke, his fingers curling around the head to catch the precome that had already pearled at the tip. John moaned loudly at the touch, the sound lost in Flint's mouth as he continued to stroke him from root to tip. He felt himself hard and heavy in the master's hand, his head lighter than it had ever been as he fought to keep his eyes open. He wanted to see the way the man was looking at him now, with nothing but naked heat and desire in those pitch black eyes. He stroked him faster, building up a steady rhythm, and when that hand suddenly left his cock it was met with a soft whimper of protest.

At least until John saw that it was only because Flint was now struggling to open his own trousers. He blinked, watching intently as Flint's own cock sprung free. He couldn't help but wet his lips at the sight of it. Thick and cut, and curving slightly towards his abdomen from a bed of copper wires. He was just as hard as he, the swollen head wet and shining. John reveled in the sight of him, of _all_ of him. The dilated pupils, cheeks flushed with heat and chest heaving, the man so hard and aching, and for _him._ The thought of it alone caused his heart to swell in his chest and his cock to twitch against his stomach.

John leaned forward to capture Flint's lips in another kiss. Their mouths melded together with renewed fervor, one that was quickly reduced to a mess of teeth and tongue and panting breaths as Flint pressed closer. He spread Johns legs further so that he could nestle himself between his thighs. Flint's cock slid against his own and he moaned out at the sensation of it. John's fingers gripped his hair as Flint moved lower to kiss his neck. His body quaked, his teeth biting down of his lower lips to stifle a moan as Flint's hand encircled both their hardened lengths. He pressed them together, using their mixed precome to slick the way as he rut against him, stroking in tandem as John fucked up into his hand.

"Ah, fuck..." John breathed. "Flint--"

The man shook his head, his lip curling slightly though he in no way stilled his movements. "No," Flint murmured, his voice was husky in his ear. "My name. Say my name, John..."

A shudder moved up John's spine at the request, his fingers further tightening in those auburn tresses as a tongue traced the shell of his ear. "James..." he purred. Flint grunted in reply. Those piercing eyes squeezed shut as he quickened his pace, hips jerking and twitching as he thrust harder against him. His hand moved faster as it worked to strip both their cocks, fingers curling around the base before tightening at the head. When Flint pressed down on the weeping slit John's back bowed forward on a low moan. He could feel himself shaking apart as Flint tore him at the seams one thread at a time. God, how he ached with it. " _James_ ," he panted desperately, whispering his name like a prayer. _"Please."_

John could feel that sweet yet unbearable tension drawing his body tight like a cord. The muscles in his abdomen twitched, a hand fisting at Flint's clothing as his hips hitched forward desperately. He was hard and aching, his body damp with a thin layer of sweat that caused his shirt and hair to cling to him. He had wanted this for so long. To feel Flint against him, to see that heat burning in his eyes.. He just needed a bit more...

Flint seemed to know just what he needed, what would provide that extra nudge that would send him toppling over the edge. Flint kissed him deeply, nipping firmly at his lower lip before moving back to take his earlobe between his teeth. John shuddered, eyes closing at the feel of him suckling at his ear. Warmth spread through to the balls of his feet, heat pooling in his belly as he drew ever closer. When Flint's free hand left its place against the small of his back to move lower, a single finger delving between his cheeks to press against his hole, it all but ignited. John's back bowed as that finger rubbed against him, just barely teasing the edge in a way that made his eyes flutter closed. All Flint had to do was breach him, that finger barely even pressing in to the second knuckle before he was coming.

John bit down hard on his lower to stifle a throaty moan, his orgasm shuddering through him with a force as he spilled over Flint's fingers. His body jerked, his head moving forward to rest against the man's shoulder as he continued to thrust against him. A few seconds more and his own name fell from Flint's lips in a hissing moan. He felt the come wet against his chest in thick ropes, the heartbeat that hammered in Flint's neck as he continued to stroke them through it. It wasn't until John whimpered from the over-sensitivity that his allowed his hand to fall away. Instead they went to cradle the back of his neck once more, a thumb stroking over John's lower lip, red and swollen from his biting. Their foreheads pressed together in the lightest of touches, their breaths mingling as they simply reveled in the pleasure of the other.


	9. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=9vk02r)  
> 

John felt nearly limbless as the pleasure of his orgasm continued to course through him. Just like an ocean swell crashing against the coast it broke over him in waves, each one softer than the last until all that remained was the gentle lull of the broken surf. Only now it came in the form of an undeniable warmth, a wonderful tingling sensation that made his very blood sing. John released a steadying breath, his tongue slowly reaching out to wet his lips before he turned his gaze upward.The way Flint was peering down at him now... God. It burned his skin far more than the press of those lips or the touch of his fingers ever could. There was a tenderness there that had never existed with Billy. Still, he recognized it as something he had seen traces of back at the orphanage. A glimmer of genuine affection --and perhaps even devotion-- that had lit the eyes of some nameless maid after a quick tryst in the gardens. Likely after he had given voice to the simple lie of _I love you_.

Before his physical relationship with Billy had taken hold, those three words were spoken often to the few blushing ladies that caught his eye. It was such an easy lie, yet each and every time it made them as soft and pliable as the breasts that swelled beneath his hands. Only now that look of longing was not cast by some nameless girl, but by the man that had come to haunt his dreams night after night. And what's more, John was certain that soft expression was mirrored in his own features. How he  wished to hear those same words fall from Flint's lips now. _I love you_. Even if it was a lie to sate his own desires, even if it would only come to serve as retribution for the way he had used them to deceive time and time again, he knew it would be worth it. It would be cruel and painful, surely. The world always was when it came to repaying thieves and liars. Even so, to know what it would be like to have those words spoken to him, and by Flint no less... God, he couldn't even imagine. Even if they were meaningless and hollow, he knew it would be enough to bring him to his knees.

John also knew that it was an impossibility. Even as that tender gaze rested upon him with the strength of a physical touch, he knew. They were too different. Not only in terms of station, but in experiences and even temperament. And so John would have to cope with all the things he did have. His working relationship with Flint, even prior to their first kiss, was more than he could have ever anticipated. While the man did have his moods, all in all he was a kind and fair master. He treated him with more respect than he had ever been previously shown. He valued his thoughts and opinions, acknowledged his gifts, and actually sought out his company. By all appearances Flint truly viewed him as his equal. Not a mere servant, but a friend. And so even if he never were to hear those galvanized words, he would at least be able revel in the way Flint spoke his name. John, _John_. And not only that, but take solace in how he had finally been able to say Flint's own name. _James..._ The name had rolled off his tongue so effortlessly. It dripped from him like honey, seeped with all the sweetness he had come to hold for the man.

As John began to settle he slowly returned to the room that surrounded him. He felt the cool evening air as it nipped against his sweat-dampened skin, saw the soft light flickering from the sconces. But what truly captured his notice was the hand that still cradled the back of his neck. Without hesitation John leaned back onto his palms to chase after the touch. He watched Flint carefully as those fingers delved deeper into his curls so that he could massage them against his scalp. It was almost as if he were committing the softness of the locks to memory. It was intoxicating. And all the while Flint remained tucked between his spread legs, the two of them so close they could still feel the heat that radiated off of one another.

Sparks ignited beneath John's skin as the man's thumb trailed down along his jaw. Despite the warmth of it his arms still broke out in gooseflesh. When Flint raised his hand to suck the mess of pearly white from his knuckles, John had to fight hard to suppress a groan. Yet the playful glint that flashed across those green eyes was enough to make it spill free. Still, the sound was swiftly muffled by the press of Flint's lips. Whether Flint had been the one to bridge the last few inches that still separated them or if John had merely yanked him forward, he wasn't certain. Then again it didn't much matter now, did it? Nothing did. It all but melted away beneath the caress of that velvet tongue; so soft and warm and wet. It was buried beneath the teeth that dug into his bottom lip, lost in the fingers that tightened in his hair, smothered so completely by the mouth that overtook his own. By the time Flint finally broke away they were both left breathless. Just as that first night in his chambers John leaned forward, lips seeking, mouth chasing, only for the hand on his shoulder to stop him.

Flint took a half step backward before pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. That normally piercing gaze was heavy and clouded as he wiped the last of the come from his fingers. John watched as the man seemed to hesitate for only a moment before folding the cloth over. When he felt the soft fabric glide against his stomach John's breath --or rather what little was left of it-- stole away inside his chest. He held perfectly still, waiting, watching with something he could only describe as shock, as Flint cleaned the mess from his abdomen with the same attention and care as a genuine lover. John wet his lips, swallowing back the desert that had so quickly formed in his throat, before forcing himself to break the silence.

"Uhm--" _Good start._ With a shake of his head John tried again. This time a chuckle left his lips first. "Miss Guthrie caught me on my way down here," he confessed, his gaze still trained on Flint as the man finished up. "The way she looked at me, she must have thought I was coming down here for... well, this..."

This made even Flint smirk. It lifted at the corner of his mouth, but more than that it shined in his eyes. "Well," he sighed, tossing the used handkerchief into the waste basket, "Be sure not to let her know she was right. It would only further swell her head, and I'm actually surprised its managing to rest atop her shoulders even now."

John laughed. "Fair enough."

Flint only nodded before placing a kiss against his forehead. "You'd best get to bed, John," he advised then. When he stepped back John could clearly see how his features were beginning their slow to return to that usual mask. Even as he tucked himself back into his trousers, even as the pleasure of his orgasm still flushed his skin, the man was building those walls back up once more. Just as he had done after their first kiss in his chambers. Only John knew better than that by now. It was not shame that was causing Flint to pull away, nor was it the fear that this was a mistake, that he was overstepping. Instead it was from something much more simple, perhaps even a bit dull. Flint was out of practice. Not just with physical closeness but everything else that encompassed such intimacy. Openness, vulnerability. While he himself had never been fond of being laid bare, of being seen through unclouded eyes, he surmised Flint was made even more uncomfortable by it. He could see it in the way he now fidgeted, in how his gaze averted his own. The man was a closed book, it would take time and effort before he could turn freely through its many pages.

"Have you been with a man since...?" John couldn't help but wonder. He didn't speak Thomas' name, and he didn't have to based on the way those eyes immediately shot upwards. Though Flint's stare hardened into a glare in response to the brazen question, it was a half-assed one at best. After all, how angry could one possibly get after a good late-night tryst?

"To bed, John," he repeated. His tone had dropped lower to one of warning.

John sighed in mild exasperation. "Yes, Sir," he drolled with a playful roll of his eyes. Without further delay he scooted off the edge of the desk so that he could better straighten his own clothing. He could feel the eyes that bore into him as he tucked himself and his shirt back into his trousers. If he purposefully slowed his movements to provide a sort of tease as he dressed, who had to know? Besides, based off the way that gaze tore into him and scrutinized his every movement, he didn't much mind the display anyway. Though to be perfectly honest, he was rather grateful to be once again covered by his shirt. Despite the warming weather of spring the evenings were still rather cool.

"Goodnight, Mr. Flint," John offered after a moment. 

"'James'," he was promptly corrected.

When John looked up the man's expression had softened slightly. " _James_ ," he repeated with a warm smile. Once again the name practically rolled from his tongue and he couldn't help but revel in it. While he would certainly continue to address Flint formally when in the presence of the others or even when in the more public corners of the estate, to be able to speak his name in these more private settings... It provided a unique thrill. It was one he would certainly cherish for as long as he was able.

* * *

John couldn't remember the last time he had been graced with such a restful night. He had enjoyed a deep, dreamless sleep that was void of even his usual nightmares. In fact, if it weren't for the small marks that had formed at the base of his neck and along his collarbone, he likely would have thought his time with Flint the night before was a figment of his imagination. A mere dream that had replaced the usual visions of scarlet walls and screaming ghosts. Yet sure enough, when his fingertips pressed down on the purpled marks the resulting pain was enough to assure him that it had indeed been real. And as the master would be hosting a dinner party that very evening, it didn't allow him the same opportunity to suddenly disappear as he had done after their first more intimate encounter.

Despite the apparent importance of this evening, John's day preceded just as he usually did. While Max was no where to be found --so busy she was in preparing the dining hall for the event--, Idelle assured him to continue his lessons with Miss Abigail for the day. She said she doubted he could possibly be of much use anyway. It went without saying that she had heard about the small fire he had nearly started. It was just as well, as he was certain his time with Flint's ward would be better well-spent. Besides, despite the events of the previous night, he still wasn't too eager to see Flint spend another day in Miss Guthrie's company. Supposedly they had again spent the day locked away within the privacy of his study. They were likely discussing the more business-related aspects of their potential engagement, should it move forward as planned. By the time they had finally emerged, John's lessons had long-since finished and it was time for the master of the house to properly greet the guests that would soon be arriving.

It was only due to Miss Abigail's insistence that John was there to witness the proceedings at all. While Abigail was certainly quite a studious and bright child, she did still hold interest for social gatherings and ladies' fashion. After all, just as Flint had once told him, she was a true daughter of Paris. And so John did his best to stifle his huffing and puffing and allowed Abigail to drag him to the large bay window that overlooked the courtyard. As the carriages rolled into sight it became clear just how wealthy this Guthrie woman truly was. While she herself was dressed a bit more formally than the day before, her other friends and relatives seemed to have no reserve in their extravagance. The carriages were just as sleek and rich in color as the well-mannered steeds that led them.

John recognized the man that was Miss Guthrie's father before Abigail even had the chance to point him out. Not only by the fact that he was the first to arrive, but by his entire demeanor and manner of dress. He was a rather sullen-looking man dressed in a pinstripe suit and a powdered white wig that, frankly, looked ridiculous. It made John incredibly grateful that Flint chose to wear his natural hair, the auburn locks only moderately cut and completely unhidden. By the time the carriages carrying the female guests --mothers, sisters, cousins, what-have-you-- arrived, John had completely lost interest. Instead his eyes had been drawn to Flint. _James._ The man was wearing much more of a formal suit than he had ever seen him in before. Even so he was certain it wouldn't be enough to impress these other Guthries. These women that had spared no expense whatsoever in not only their manner of travel, but in their elegant and flowing dresses. Still, even as Abigail tugged at his sleeve, the girl speaking fervently in French as she complimented their beauty and style, his gaze remained of Flint. He couldn't help but wonder what he would look like later this evening, his face freshly shaven and his clothing that of a proper lord. Perhaps it would even be enough for him pass as a gentleman. Soon he would know for sure.

John waited to send Abigail off until he was certain she would remain under Ms. Mapleton's watchful eye. As boisterous as she had become at the news of Flint's return, the excitement inspired by the dinner party was unparalleled. He had never seen her so eager and curious. In a way it made sense, considering her upbringing. She had grown up in the city of lights, a country whose culture practically breathed music and art. While the fact that this was the first time Flint had entertained guests was enough to excite her, it couldn't be denied that this would also serve as a reminder of home. While he had eventually promised her that they would sneak a peek in on the party later --he could never deny the pitiful look those large brown eyes were capable of--, it went without saying that they were not on the guest list. An after-dinner soirée was no place for servants, and certainly not for a child.

John made sure to keep out of sight as he wandered down the corridor towards Flint's chambers. It proved easy enough considering his slender build. Then again even if he had run into one of the pompous lords or ladies, they still wouldn't have seen him. Not really. Servants were more or less pieces of furniture to these people. Tools to be used and then promptly discarded. He remembered back at his aunt's house how the servants had more or less disappeared into the background until they were called upon. He had experienced the phenomenon himself when he was a mere urchin at the orphanage. However painful it may have been at the start, it taught him an important lesson: There was great power in being seen as less than. When one's presence was easily forgotten, it allowed you to hear whispered secrets and hushed truths. Just as Flint's accountant Jack had later told him, to be underestimated was a great gift. It was then that he realized the two of them would get along seamlessly.

John only rapped his knuckles once against the door before slipping inside. He'd rather Flint scold him for entering without permission than be caught skulking outside his door like a common pervert... Again. And even if the man was in one of his foul moods and snapped at him like he had during their first meeting, he knew it would be worth it. For Flint now stood in front of a full length mirror dressed in the finest suit he had ever seen. Crisp black in color, the fabric was pressed and neat, and the upturned collar as pristine and white as a layer of fresh snow. It only heightened the handsome features of the man that wore it. It hugged close to his form in a way that accentuated the lean muscle hidden underneath while still remaining modest. Surely it would capture the imagination of any who gazed upon him. But not he, for John already knew what lay underneath, at least to an extent. After all his own body had been pressed flush against it just the night before. He had touched the flat expanse of his stomach, felt the muscles cording in his arms, reveled in the swell of his cock and the taste of his tongue. Flint was a sight, truly.

John leaned back against the wood as a less than innocent grin spread across his face. The click of the door closing was enough to alert Flint of his presence, that is if his brazen ogling hadn't already done so. Which it had, based on the faint smirk that greeted him when John's gaze finally traveled back up to his face.

"Do you think me handsome now, John?" Flint questioned. His tone was far too smug for his own good.

John shook his head without hesitation. "No, Sir," he smirked. "You look absolutely ridiculous. Repugnant, actually. I suggest you take that off immediately."

Flint snorted. "You shit," he muttered before returning to inspect his reflection. Despite the man's wealth and likely good upbringing, the man couldn't tie a bow tie worth a damn. It was fairly crooked, and his futile attempts to fix it were only making it more rumpled.

John could only find amusement in watching him struggle for so long before deciding to put him out of his misery. With a sigh he stepped forward, lightly batting away the man's hand so that he could untie the thing and start from the beginning. Mere moments passed before he smoothed the bow tie between his thumb and forefinger and gaze a satisfied nod. "There."

"How are you so good at that?" Flint scowled.

"It's not that difficult," John pointed out. "Besides, I'll have you know I have very nimble fingers."

"Oh?"

John hummed. "They're good for all sorts of things, really," he teased with a quirked brow. "Not just playing piano and drawing, but writing and pickp--" Suddenly he stopped short and Flint's stare hardened.

"You were going to say pick pocketing, weren't you?"

John offered a small half shrug. Only when that unsure gaze didn't settle did he offer a proper explanation. "The library at the orphanage was locked every evening, I had to get the key somehow."

Flint shook his head in feigned disapproval. "Witchcraft, blasphemy, and now thievery... No wonder your family didn't want you."

John couldn't help the smirk that rose on his lips. "Lucky for you," he teased.

Flint gave nothing in the ways of an answer, save for the slight upward twitch of his mouth. John took it as a good sign nonetheless. While he hadn't exactly agreed to the sentiment, he hadn't disagreed, either. Instead, he asked his own question. "Why aren't you helping Max with the last minute preparations?"

"I've been banished from the kitchens."

"Ah, right," Flint nodded with a frown. "I recall someone mentioning a fire..."

John scowled. Did Max really have to tell everyone about that? Then again, it was probably Idelle that had let word slip.. repeatedly. The woman was such a gossip.

Flint seemed somewhat amused by his silence; he always was. "In any case," he continued, "Keep a bucket of water with you and go help anyway. If anything is to Richard Guthrie's distaste, that insufferable man will surely be the first to let me know."

John couldn't help but chuckle. Based on what he had already come to learn of the man, it seemed only fitting that his name was _Richard_. Flint didn't seem to grasp what he found so amusing so he dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

"As you wish, Sir," John offered instead with a playful glint in his eye. The formal way he had been addressing Flint this evening was not out of malice or as a means if being passive aggressive. Now he was doing it as a form of light teasing, for right now he truly did appear a proper lord. John was just about to leave to attend to his new duties, when the touch of Flint's fingers in his hair gave him pause.

"Do try to keep out of trouble, John," he warned gently.

John smirked. "Always."


	10. A Proper Taste

John returned to the kitchens at a leisurely pace. Dinner wasn't set to take place for another hour or so and despite the last minute notice, the feast had been prepared to perfection. It was an achievement Idelle contributed to Gates' skill, Max's seamless direction, and his.... Well, his staying out of the way. Now, however, he was acting on Flint's orders. He would do anything the man asked of him, even if that meant earning Max's scorn with his well-meant yet misguided attempts at offering assistance. Hopefully this time it wouldn't result in putrid smoke and a scorched kitchen floor. That, and a severe tongue lashing that had even made him shrink in his boots. John couldn't help but reminisce, as with each step he drew closer to the kitchens the louder he could hear the commotion within. While he couldn't exactly make out the heated words that were being exchanged, even with his proficiency in the French language, Max's shouting was unmistakable.

Idelle was standing beside the closed doorway with folded arms and a frown set upon her lips. John didn't hesitate before stopping short to join her. If she was weary enough of a situation to remain outside, it was for a good reason. This thought was only confirmed when what sounded like a kettle struck against the wall within.

"What's going on in there?" John dared to ask as he leaned against the wall. Somehow the loud clatter did little to detract from the argument that was surely taking place inside.

Idelle huffed out a sigh. Despite it all she seemed rather bored. "Eleanor and Max, that's what's going on," she explained. Her words were swiftly followed by another crash. "I don't think it's going too well."

John tried to suppress a smirk as he shook his head. "No shit..." he mumbled. He was about to say more when a shout of " _Get out!_ " made him fall silent. Moments later the door flung open to the flurry of tearful eyes and ruffled skirts as Miss Guthrie hurried past them both. Her head was dipped down in a futile attempt to keep them from witnessing the tears that dampened her cheeks, only made more obvious by the bottom lip caught between her teeth. Even so she refused to meet their gaze. John didn't blame her, but right now his concern was reserved for Max and Max alone.

John cast Idelle an uneasy glance before taking a breath and stepping into the kitchen. Sure enough a kettle and a cast iron pan had come to rest on the floor beside a shattered teacup. Even without the physical evidence, the tension that hung thick in the air was enough to allude to the fight that had just taken place. As for Max, she stood in the far corner with her palms planted against the counter top. As he drew closer he could hear how she continued to angrily mutter to herself in French.

"Are you alright?" John asked. He was careful with his tone as he stooped down to pick up the shattered pieces of pottery.

When Max finally turned to face him he could clearly see how her own eyes were glassy. "I thought I would be," she admitted, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter. "But seeing her again.. It just brought it all back. Her rejection, her... _betrayal._ " Her lips twisted into a frown as she shook her head. "Don't make the mistake of trusting them, John. These people --Flint, _Eleanor_... They're all the same," she warned him. "They will chose themselves first every time. They will step on you again and again, and they will betray absolutely anyone." Max gave another shake of her head. "Thank you for cleaning up, mon chere," she eventually murmured before making her own way out.

Only when the sound of her footsteps disappeared down the hall did Idelle dare to join him. "Like I said before," she pressed as she took the kettle over to the sink, "I'd avoid her until Miss Guthrie departs. I haven't seen her this unsure of herself in quite a while."

John frowned. "Will she be okay?"

"Eventually. You know how it can be, seeing someone from your past. Old wounds reopen but they will heal again with time, even if they do end up scarring."

John didn't say any more. He supposed he could understand her reasoning... He felt as though he had adjusted to this life, that he had finally taken by the reigns and gained some control, some sense of worth. If he were ever to see the head of the orphanage again, that old crone Hornigold, or even his aunt... he wasn't certain just how he would react. He couldn't be. Perhaps he would end up being just and shaken and fragile as Max had appeared just moments ago.

"What's that on your neck?"

The question tore John away from his thoughts so abruptly that he nearly dropped the freshly-cleaned pan back to the floor. "Beg pardon?" he asked once he had managed to regain his grip on the thing.

Instead of repeating the question Idelle instead stepped forward to see for herself. This time John really did drop the pan. The metal clattered against the floor as he tried --and failed-- to stop her advances.

"Your neck is covered with bruises," Idelle noted the moment she was finally able to move aside his shirt collar.

"I ran into something." As lame an excuse as it was, it was all he could manage at the moment.

Idelle snorted. "Like what?" she asked incredulously as she pushed aside the fabric to get an even better look. "Someone's lips?"

Though John's mouth twitched upwards he refused to give a proper answer. Still, based on Idelle's smirk his silence was just as good as a confession. 

"So?" she wondered after a moment. "Mr. Flint?" John must not have concealed his smile quickly enough for she started to laugh. "I fucking knew it. You know, not once have I caught that man staring at my tits."

"A crime if there ever was one," John lamented before smacking her hands away.

The woman smirked. "Have you fucked him yet?"

"Jesus christ..."

"Well that's a 'no'," Idelle chuckled. John's answering glare only resulted in a shrug. "Give it time. I've seen the way he looks at you when you aren't watching."

This gave John pause. "And what way is that?" Even though he felt he knew the answer he couldn't help but ask. He was well aware that he and Flint traded secret glances when it was just the two of them. But surely whatever it was that was developing between them --that brewing tension brought about by the urge to taste and to touch--, surely it wasn't that transparent to the others as well.

"The same way you look at him," Idelle answered easily.

John frowned as he returned to re-washing the pan. That definitely wasn't what he had hoped to hear. Had he truly become so easy to read? All these years that practiced smile and forced charisma had allowed him to deceive and manipulate. More than that, his effortless charm formed a barrier that protected him from the outside world. It was his shield. Had Flint truly caused such a noticeable crack? How long would it be until his mask crumbled completely? 

Idelle seemed to sense his weariness. However, at the very least the root cause of it managed to remain hidden. So while her following advice of, "Don't worry, I've seen stranger things happen", was appreciated, it did little to assuage his true concern. And that was the vulnerability he felt more keenly with each passing day. All his life he had remained closed off and guarded, only trusting a select few at a time. His uncle Richard, Muldoon, then Billy... Now, suddenly and without warning, there was an entire group of people he had grown close to. Who he would fight for and protect. Who he _trusted_. There was Max and Idelle, little Abigail, and now Flint... A man who held his beating heart in his very hand, and with an ever-tightening grip. For the first time in his life John felt as though he had a real family. And it terrified him.

Fortunately for John he was able to slip away, and without accidentally divulging any of his other secrets, too. Just as suspected there was little work that remained to be done. Even so he worked hard to find something, _anything_ , to do that would better occupy his mind. For the most part he was reduced to running some last minute errands before helping Idelle set the dining table. While such a task was one Randall would usually take care of he had been strangely scarce today. Well, moreso than usual. In any case he paid it no mind and instead busied himself with the mundane tasks of setting out the silverware. He still wasn't permitted anywhere around the food, and work was work.

It went without saying that John and the other servants enjoyed their own dinner far from the wealthy visitors. While Abigial normally dined with them, both out of habit and mere convenience as Flint usually took his dinners quite late --that is when he remembered to eat at all--, as tonight was a formal occasion she spent it in the main dining hall. He remembered her practically begging Flint to allow her to join the adults at the table. She had spoken fervently, promising to behave her very best and stay perfectly quiet. Flint had only smirked down at her. While the others may have thought it from a poor taste of amusement, John knew better than that by now. He could clearly see the gentle fondness that resided within those green depths as he peered down at her. In fact, he surmised that lift of his lips was from the fact that he had been planning for her to join them at the table all along; a theory that had been proven correct moments later when she embraced him from excitement.

John couldn't deny that the meal seemed strangely quiet without her presence despite the chatter that surrounded him. He even missed chastising the girl to stop playing with her food. Fortunately it was only an hour or so before she was returned to his company once more. Dinner was one thing, but for her to spend the evening in the parlor was not a notion Flint would entertain. Discussions of religion and politics, and whispers of scandals, were certainly not suitable for a child to hear. On that both he and Flint could actually agree. Still, the two of them had already devised their own way to enjoy the spectacle from afar. Mere moments after Ms. Mapleton left Abigail in his care she was already tugging at his sleeve to guide him up the stairwell. The party was taking place in the parlor, naturally, and could be overseen from a short passageway above.

The room was already buzzing with quiet chatter by the time the two of them grew settled against the railing that was hidden in the shadows. Abigail seemed positively delighted by the scene playing out below. Even John could admit that it created quite the elegant picture. Light danced across the walls from the series of sconces, providing a warm glow that was only heightened by the fire that burned in the hearth. The men were just as finely dressed as Flint, and the women wore their flowing gowns and perfect curls. He couldn't help but try to take a closer look at the pearls and stones that sat atop their necks when Abigail whispered of their beauty. He supposed he could agree to some extent. Still, the main thing that crossed his mind when he looked upon those jewels was _what a waste of money._

The fact that it was to be a rather boring evening was one he had resigned himself to long ago. His gaze shifted about the nobles milling about below, shifting on their feet as their talked over politics or more shallow matters. He noticed Richard Guthrie immediately. Not just from the horrendous suit, but from the hard scowl on his face that he doubted even Flint could match. He noted Max standing in the corner in wait, just in case she were needed by one of the guests, with another woman standing beside her. She, he did not recognize. She had fair skin and red hair that reached the middle of her back. Based on the tresses that hung free and her plain manner of dress, she was a servant. Likely one of the Guthrie's. The two of them seemed to be talking quietly amongst themselves though they remained facing the rest of the room. Still, he couldn't help but notice the lingering glances the two of them occasionally exchanged. Heavy-lidded stares that he recognized immediately, especially as his eyes shifted to cast Flint one such gaze now.

The man stood near the center of the room with Miss Guthrie at his arm. There was no evidence of the tears that had dampened her eyes not hours ago. She appeared just as confident and strong as she had the rest of the times he had seen her. However, every so often her gaze would flick to the corner where Max stood. John couldn't help but wonder about the two of them. About the relationship they had shared, exactly how it had fallen apart, and if he and Flint were destined for the same fate. Then again, they didn't exactly have a relationship, did they? There was something there, something they each refused to name, but surely it wasn't the same. They had bent to their physical desires not once but twice, but that didn't mean anything would come of it, even if there wasn't the implication of an impending engagement. It was only physical... Flint didn't care for him, at least not as he had for Miranda and Thomas Hamilton. He was fond of him, yes.. but surely that was it. Even so... as John gazed upon him now, he couldn't help but wonder. Idelle said that Max and Eleanor had been lovers. Had they actually _loved_ each other? Even before the question had fully formed in his mind he already knew the answer. Of course they had. The tears both of them had shed just tonight was proof of that alone. And John couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to be loved by James Flint. Even if it were only destined to end in heartache and ruin, even if it would only last for a little while. He couldn't help but wonder.

As the night wore on, John's gaze never left Flint's form. He followed him as he moved about the room, watched as he laughed and smiled, and shared words that could not be made out. He seemed like an entirely different person. Max had once told him that he was quite skilled, socially. At the time this had only made him laugh. All he had seen from the man were barked orders, harsh tones, and glares better fitting a worn soldier than a noble. Now, however, he could see exactly what she meant. This was not the man he had come to know, but rather the guise he perpetuated to others who commanded his respect. Just like him, Flint had his own mask that needed to be worn. That false smile that would be used to gain leverage and push ideas, that tall stature that proclaimed him as a man of unwavering strength. One without weaknesses. It was intoxicating to watch. Not because of the performance itself, as seamless as it was, but because he knew the man that existed beneath it all. He had seen for himself the raw emotion that could twist his normally stern features. He had heard the love that swelled in his tone as he spoke of the Hamiltons, felt the loss as if it weighed on his own heart just as heavily. He _knew_ Flint. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was no one else closer to him in the world right now than he.

Eventually the lateness of the hour finally caught up to them. To all of them, really. The once boisterous chatter and laughter from below had settled to quiet whispers that were only mirrored by the dying light of the fire. Abigail had long since fallen asleep, her long lashes brushing against her cheeks and her head heavy against his shoulder. Even John had taken to propping his chin atop the arms he had folded on the banister. Still he watched Flint with heavily lidded eyes. He watched as one by one he bid his guests a pleasant evening until even Eleanor had left his side. He watched as those green eyes lifted to meet his own for a fleeting moment, that familiar glimmer flashing across his eyes, before the the man offered him a faint tilt of his chin towards the door. John recognized the request for what it was and gave a nod. Moving very gingerly so as to not wake her up, John gathered Abigail into his arms so that he could put her to bed. In retrospect it was something he should've done hours ago. Almost instinctively her arms wrapped around his neck as she was lifted, and John could feel the strong tug that resulted within his chest. The sensation persisted even as he traveled down the darkened corridors, strengthened as he tucked her into bed. After a moment's hesitation he stooped down to place a kiss atop her head. He knew the feeling now as it spread across his chest. He could finally give it a name: Love. It was a feeling that only strengthened the moment John noticed Flint standing in the hall in wait for him.

John's heart hammered within his chest as he quietly pulled the door closed behind him. The door had hardly even clicked shut before he felt those fingers graze his cheek. Without hesitation John tilted his head upwards at the touch, eyes pleading, lips seeking. He give no consideration for where they were. The open hallway they now stood in was all but forgotten, seemingly even by Flint, as that mouth hovered just a breadth above his own. When John lifted his chin to close the gap Flint only smirked as he withdrew half a fraction.

"Not here," Flint reminded him softly. Dark amusement shone in his eyes as he gestured for him to come along. Already he was moving down the hall and John followed not far behind. The only sound that existed was the echo of their footsteps against the stone floor. That, and the beat of John's heart as it pounded in his ears with the strength of a drum. Though he knew it was a vast impossibility, John couldn't help but wonder if Flint could somehow hear it too. After all, it beat only for him.

They reached the library first. Moonlight poured in through the large bay windows, bathing the room in a comforting glow that cast aside any necessity to light a proper lantern. John heard the bolt thrown into the lock just before the bookcase knocked against his back. Or rather, he knocked against it. The resulting sting that traveled up his spine was paid no mind. The fleeting pain was overshadowed by the feel of those soft lips against his own, by the body that slotted so perfectly against his. When Flint's thigh nudged itself between his legs John's lips parted on a sigh. The sound was lost in the other's mouth as they kissed. They did so slowly, John's fingers gripping the front of Flint's collar as he licked into his mouth. Just as they had done time and time again, the touch of those lips seared his skin like a brand.

Eventually John nipped down on Flint's bottom lip. His hand then released the front of his collar so that it could instead slip between the man's legs. John smirked knowingly as he palmed along that hardening length. While Flint remained perfectly still beneath his bold and wandering touches, he could still hear the way his breath hitched deep within his chest. He felt it huff out against his skin as he slowly stroked him. John didn't need any further encouragement before sinking to his knees. Leaning forward he nuzzled against the cut of Flint's hips before moving lower to mouth over the trousers that trapped his cock. He could already feel how the fabric had tightened. John's smirk only grew. How he longed for the willpower to draw this out as long as possible, to tease the man until he was so hard that he ached with it. Fortunately for Flint he had craved this moment for far too long already. Night after night he had dreamt of tasting Flint on his tongue, of taking him so deep that he felt him at the back of his throat. He _needed_ this, and John had always been nothing if not a selfish man.

John's fingers worked to undue the fastenings of Flint's trousers before tugging them down just enough to free his cock. He was already completely hard. Yet any smugness he may have felt at eliciting such a response was erased the moment Flint stroked his cheek. John swallowed, his own eyes closing at the gentle touch before traveling upwards. The wasn't enough light for him the see the heat that darkened those eyes, yet he could see the way Flint's lips were parted in want. The way his chest had already begun to rise and fall at a quickened pace. He held his gaze as the took the man in his hand and stroked him from root to tip. Only when those green eyes fluttered closed did John allow his own gaze to drop. He took in the sight of him, his eyes dragging over him with the weight of a physical touch as he sought to burn this into his memory. He was absolutely beautiful.

John couldn't deny himself any longer. Leaning forward, he gave that hardened length another stroke before finally taking him into his mouth. Already, the heady taste of him was enough to send sparks shooting down his spine. He sucked gently at the head, laving the sensitive flesh with his tongue before mouthing down the shaft. Flint's fingers tightened in his hair as he sucked along the base. He trailed his tongue through the course copper wires, his eyes closing as he breathed in the scent of him before dragging his tongue back toward the tip. The sound of Flint's poorly-suppressed moan was more beautiful than any melody. Briefly he probed the slit with his tongue before taking him into his mouth once more. He moved down, his tongue laving the underside while his hand stroked what couldn't fit into his mouth. He worked expertly from the practice his previous encounters had provided, his hand moving in tandem with each outward pull of his mouth.

John reveled in the way Flint's thigh shuddered beneath his free hand, the way those fingers tightened almost painfully in his curls. He hummed, resting back on his heels as he allowed Flint to guide him. He chased the faint tugs of his hand, gave into and encouraged the upward thrust of his hips. He could already feel himself hard and aching, the pleasure derived from doing this for James enough to dampen his own trousers with precome. The taste of him, the weight of him pillowed on his tongue... He was practically drunk with it. John's fingers bit into Flint's hip as he moved faster, taking him deeper, deeper, until his was forced to breath in through his nose. He could feel the way the man was coming apart at the seams. He heard his moans, felt the way he began to lose control over the upward hitch of his hips. When those fingers pulled at him he relaxed his throat, taking him even deeper until his nose pressed against that nest of copper hair. John swallowed down around him, and with a moan he felt the heat of his release as it washed down his throat. He continued to suckle at him gently, coaxing him through his orgasm until a sharp hiss left those lips and he was tugged off.

John leaned back on his heels as he worked to catch his breath. A hand reached up to wipe the dribble of come that had escaped down his chin. He smirked up Flint, his lips just parting to speak when the man knelt down to capture his lips with his own. John fell silent immediately, his lips parting as Flint sought to deepen to kiss, to taste the trace of him on the back of his tongue. John keened, moaning softly into his mouth as Flint worked his hand into his own trousers. He was already so close, it didn't take long for the stroke of that hand to take him over over the edge. " _James..._ " The name left him in a shuddering moan as he released over his hand, his frame shaking with each pulse of it. He swallowed thickly, breathing against the dampened skin of Flint's neck as he stroked him through it. Fingers threaded through his hair, cupping the base of his jaw to guide his lips upward where they would continue to touch again and again.

John wasn't sure how long they remained there kneeling on the floor of the library, exchanging tender touches that were only matched by the caress of their lips. The only thing John felt was the lightness of his head and the faint sting in his jaw. The way his body felt so incredibly light yet heavy all at once. It had never been like this with Billy. Not once. And he was certain it would never be like this with anyone else, for he was so entirely lost on the man. He was truly, utterly, pathetically his.


	11. Look the Part

"You've done that before," James murmured lowly once their lips had finally parted. How long it had taken for that moment to come to pass, John wasn't certain. Not that it much mattered. He was certain he could spend the rest of his days with those lips pressed against his own, and he would die a happy man indeed.

In any case, John could only smirk at the accusation. "I've done that several times before, actually." The words were purred against James' lips, the space between them still so scant that he could feel the frown that followed.

"Promiscuous devil."

"Prudish old man," John countered just as swiftly. When he met his eyes he could see the heat that lingered there. The pupils were still fully blown, reducing his irises to a thin ring of jade, and his eyes were hooded. They were more beautiful than the grassy hillsides and sprawling oceans that filled his dreams. But what truly captured John's attention was the way the corner of Flint's mouth had turned upwards in a smirk. It was small and fleeting, disappearing mere moments after he had taken note of it, but it was there.

Suddenly Flint leaned back on his heels so that he could clean the mess of white from his fingers. Just as he had done before, he snuck a taste from the edge of his thumb before wiping away the rest of the evidence with a handkerchief. And just as before, the sight of it fueled his imagination to the point where his mouth watered.

"Billy?" Flint ventured the guess as he stood and tucked himself back into his trousers. When he didn't receive a timely answer those dark eyes flicked downward once more.

When those eyes met his, John could only nod. The unexpected question had been enough to shake him from his thoughts, but there was more to it than that. The fact that Flint not only remembered the details he had shared of his past, but had actually been listening to him in the first place, had stunned him into a silence.

"What was he like?" Flint continued.

By now John had returned from his thoughts, at least enough to notice the way the man was now averting his gaze. He knew well enough to realize that Flint wasn't interested in Billy's character. That wasn't what he was asking in this moment.

"At least a hand's length taller than you," John admitted. He was unable to help the smirk that pulled at his lips when Flint scowled, and when a string of grumbled curses fell from his tongue not moments later, he actually laughed. Seeing the man this transparent in his jealousy was endearing to say the least. It also better explained why Max and Idelle teased him so mercilessly: It was fun.

"And did you--?"

"Oh yes, numerous times" John offered with a lewd smirk before he could even finish the question. "In fact, some days I couldn't even sit down during the sermon."

Flint's frown only deepened. "You really are a devil," he spat.

John's impish grin only widened. "Perhaps," he purred. He raised onto his knees so that he'd have a better angle to let his hands wander over Flint's waist. His thumbs dipped beneath the edge of his trousers, lighting teasing the skin before palming over the cut of his hips.

"And yet here is your forbidden fruit," John continued lowly. He regarded Flint carefully as he allowed his touches to become bolder, his hands slipping behind his legs to drag his fingernails down his thighs. "Ripe and ready for the taking."

"Are you supposed to be both the tempting fruit, and the snake in the grass?" Flint asked, humoring him. When those fingers curled into his hair he had to bite back a sigh.

"I thought it seemed rather fitting," John offered simply.

Flint hummed, the sound low as it rumbled in the back of his throat. Sparks were sent shooting up his arms as the man began to thread his fingers through his hair. His skin erupted in goose flesh at the tender intimacy of such a touch. When those fingers tightened in his tresses and gave a gentle upward tug, he was swiftly coaxed to his feet. No sooner had John risen to his full height that those lips came pressing against his own.

John's lips parted easily, his eyes falling shut as the man seemed to breathe the air into his very lungs. " _Please.._." John wasn't sure whether the plea had been given voice or if it had remained silent within his own mind, at least until Flint broke the kiss with a shake of his head.

"With this many strangers in my home, I won't risk it."

John couldn't withhold the soft sigh of disappointment. It was only soothed by the touch of those lips against his forehead.

"I want you to come to the drawing room tomorrow evening," Flint continued."

"Come _to_ the drawing room, or _in_ the drawing room?" If he had so much as blinked he would have missed the way he rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"I would like for you and Abigail to join us in the drawing room tomorrow evening," Flint answered instead, rephrasing the request in its entirety. John would have pouted were it not for the thumb that stroked over his cheek.

John thought over his next words carefully. "To be honest, those people seem rather dull."

At this Flint's lip twitched upwards in a smirk. "That's precisely why I'd like you there," he replied matter-of-factually. "I swear, listening to those insufferable old crones is taking years off my life."

John sighed. "Fine," he mumbled. Then, out of sheer curiosity, "Is this an order?"

Flint shook his head, his eyes still dark and seeking. "It's nothing but a humble request for a favor," he assured him. "One that will be graciously returned."

Flint's words moved through him with a shudder before sinking into his belly. "Then it would be my pleasure, _Sir_ ," John drolled out, the quip earning him yet another glimpse of that wolfish smile. It lasted but a moment before he was kissed once more. While the two them had shared many kisses up until this point, this one felt... different. Deep and slow, and full of the longing John had begun to feel so keenly over the past several weeks.

"Good... Now you'd best get to bed, John."

Were it not for the way such a tender touch left him breathless, John would have protested. Yet it always did when it came to Flint, and so John could only nod against his shoulder as he steadily regained his breath. It took him only a few moments to straighten out his own clothing, and soon enough he had returned to the darkness and seclusion of his bed chamber. Even as he lay down atop the sheets he knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep anytime soon. His mind was buried beneath a mess of thoughts. Unlike most nights, however, these thoughts were not comprised of torrid desires but of memories.

The ache in his knees as he knelt before his master, how he had reveled in the heady taste of him on his tongue. It had transcended even his most salacious dreams. Thick and generous in length, and just slightly curved. He remembered the splattering of freckles that had extended even below the curve of his hips, before disappearing beneath the bed of copper wires. The beauty of him alone was enough to steal his breath away. It was reminiscent of how he had choked off his air with each shallow thrust into his throat.

Even though he had come across Flint's fist not long ago, his cock had already begun to stir with renewed interest at the memory. John's hand slipped between his legs with ease. He was already lost to his thoughts and the warmth that lulled through him. The weight of Flint's length on his tongue, the stretch of his lips as he took him deep into his throat.

_A favor... One that will be graciously returned._

John couldn't help but ponder over the meaning of these words. Perhaps Flint would sink to his knees for him. The thought alone was enough for him to harden further beneath the slide of his palm. He wondered what those lips would look like stretched around his cock, pink and plump. He imagined the slow drag of that velvet tongue along the underside of his member, the gentle suction at the head. The cool shock of metal from his ring as he stroked him.

John hitched upward against his palm as his thoughts shifted to something more daring. Perhaps Flint would finally take him, all of him. He couldn't care less about the location or the circumstances. Whether Flint laid him down atop his bed or bent him over the desk in his study, he didn't care. He didn't care if it was slow and sensual or rough and desperate. He just wanted him. _God_ , how he wanted him. It had been several months since he'd had a single fuck, but that wasn't it. It was _Flint_ that he wanted. _James._.

John delved into his trousers, taking himself in his hand as he imagined what it would be like to have that cock buried deep inside him. He wondered if Flint would take his time in preparing him, if he would stretch him slowly before fucking him with his fingers. He wondered if he would use his saliva to slick the way, or if he had a proper lubricant hidden away somewhere. His fingers quickened in their movement, his chest tightening as he practically felt the blunt pressure of that swollen head against his entrance. The slow stretch that just bordered on being painful, before that length filled him so completely. The heat of his seed as he came inside him...

John's breath stuttered as he came for the second time that night. Heat warmed his cheeks, spreading down his chest as he relaxed against the bedding and caught his breath. He didn't worry about how Idelle would scold him for ruining his clothing. He would deal with it tomorrow. For now he let himself fall into the dark embrace of sleep, the touch of Flint's lips and the softness of his skin soothing his dreams.

* * *

 

John woke slowly the next morning. If it weren't for the faint sting that persisted in his jaw, he would've thought the events of last night were nothing but a dream. Yet there it was, and he couldn't help but grin widely despite the ache it caused. Finally he had been able to sink to his knees before Flint, and perhaps tonight, if he were lucky, he would be able to spread his legs for him as well. The anticipation alone was enough to wipe any trace of sleep from the edge of his mind. For now, though, he had to focus on getting through the day.

The sun had just risen over the horizon by the time John reached the kitchens. Just like the day before, Idelle was waiting patiently outside the door. Only this time she busied herself with freshening up the flower vases.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

John paused and quirked a brow. "Are Max and Miss Guthrie arguing again?" Unlike yesterday he didn't hear any shouting or crashing of tableware"

Idelle smirked and rolled her eyes. "Not exactly."

John had always been one to bend to his curiosity, and now was certainly no exception. With careful movements he turned the knob and cracked the door open just enough to peer inside. What he saw was not disappointing in the least. There stood Max, leaning back against the counter, with the redheaded girl from last night pressed up against her. Their lips were locked and their fingers intertwined. John felt the blush creep into his cheeks before he even managed to quietly close the door.

 _"Not exactly,"_ John repeated sarcastically. "Who is she?"

Idelle offered a shrug of her shoulder. "One of the Guthrie's servants," she answered simply.

John sighed in annoyance. She was certainly a well of information this morning.

"In any case, I'd reconsider speaking with her about your new _budding romance_. She won't be as open to it as I..." She smirked knowingly then. "How is that going, by the way?"

Now it was John's turn to be vague with his answers. "Fine." Idelle raised a brow as she tilted her head, seeking more. It proved effective enough, for he spilled the truth not moments later. "He's requested I join he and the others in the parlor tonight."

Idelle clicked her tongue. "Ooooh. Well, he must be quite serious about you if he's willing to risk parading you out in front of the others."

"Risk?" John asked, struggling to keep the indignation out of his tone.

Idelle laughed. "No offense, but you aren't exactly someone that would blend in with proper company."

"Excuse me?"

"Well for starters, that untamed mop of curls on your head. The bruises I can still see peeking from beneath your collar, your plain clothing, and your poor posture. You're also brash and ill-mannered."

John scoffed. _"I'm_ brash?" he countered, properly flustered.

"I mean that with as much love as a friend can muster." John gaped, his mouth moving wordlessly as he couldn't think of what to say. A fact that only made the woman more smug. "Don't worry. Max may be... preoccupied, but I can lend you a hand. By the time dinner turns into drinks, you'll be presentable enough not to embarrass Mr. Flint."

Sure enough, Idelle was true to her word. The moment his lessons with Abigail were completed for the day he was pulled aside and they got to work. Surprisingly, Abigail let him go without any protesting. She excited was she to finally be allowed to spend more time among the dinner guests, she tugged Ms. Mapleton and Max along to help her find a dress beautiful enough to impress and awe. 

As for himself, the first task was finding a shirt with a high enough of a collar to conceal the marks Flint's mouth had left against his skin. While he didn't mind the small purple bruises, even he could admit it would be inappropriate to parade the marks around such "fine" company. The last thing he wanted to do was burden Flint's reputation with the torrid affair of the Tudor in his employ. He knew well enough how rumors could lead to political and societal demise.

While they were able to find a few shirts from the orphanage that reached high enough over his collarbone, they certainly weren't suitable for this occasion. Fortunately, Idelle had already figured as much and come up with a solution. She presented him with a fine high-collared shirt that had been left behind by her lover, Mr. Featherstone. While a big large, it would certainly do. And when combined with a pair of dress pants, John felt he might actually pass as a gentleman if glanced at.

Next was his hair. While it was certainly the easiest obstacle to overcome, it also made him the most miserable. Idelle brushed through it with her fingers before tying it with a ribbon at the base of his neck. This was how he had been forced to wear it at the orphanage, and he absolutely loathed it. The feeling of being "prim" and "proper". He felt fucking ridiculous; like a trussed up turkey. He didn't hesitate sharing these thoughts with Idelle. However, the moment she assured him that Flint would be impressed, his complaints swiftly fell to nothing more than quiet grumblings. He wanted to prove himself, to show even himself that he could be someone worthy of Flint's affections. And if that meant being dressed up like one of little Abigail's doll, then so be it.

Though John insisted he knew how to act while amongst proper company, Idelle insisted on lecturing him about manners nonetheless. Her advice mostly consisted of the obvious. Sit down and shut up, don't speak unless spoken to, and use "Yes Sir" and "Yes Madame" as liberally as possible. She also instructed him to sit up straight, keep his hands folded in his lap, and not to let his eyes wander. According to her, if he felt comfortable he was doing something wrong. But above all else: keep his mouth shut.

Despite his quick and clever tongue, this wasn't exactly a feat that concerned him. After all, he had spent many a day lost in the recesses of his mind with nothing but silence and his imagination for company. The truly difficult part would be keeping his eyes --and his thoughts-- from straying to Flint, lest the entire company become aware of his affections. After all, the male form was not made for subtlety when it came to lust. Hopefully the task of keeping Abigail reigned in would keep him preoccupied enough.

When John saw Abigail next she skipped towards him with the brightest smile he had ever seen. "Monsieur Silver!" she beamed, collapsing against him in a hug that was easily returned. "Tu es tres beau! Est-ce que vous aimez ma robe?"

John couldn't help the fond smile that tugged at his lips. She always reverted back to her native language when she was overly-excited. For tonight, he couldn't find it in his heart to correct her. Instead, he answered her the way she loved best.

"Oui, oui. Tu est tres belle, Abigail. Like a princess." If it were possible, her smile only widened.

The drawing room was lit with a seemingly impossible number of candles, just as it had been the night before. Only down here it looked far more beautiful. Abigail skipped ahead excitedly, her arms raising with each flowing motion as she danced across the room. Max was in the far corner finishing the preparations, and offered a small smile in their direction.

"Miss Abigail," John hissed, his breath just above a whisper. Though his words were quiet his tone was telling, and with a pout she went to join him on the small couch set at the corner of the room. It allowed them a clear view of the room yet kept them far out of the way. Hopefully they wouldn't gather too much attention.

Abigail rested back against the cushions with her doll at her side her favorite illustrated book opened across her lap. Some sort of fairytale. John himself had brought the journal he used to plan out his future lessons. He figured he might as well get some actual work done. There was also a thick text he had borrowed from Flint's personal library should that grow tiresome late into the night.

John heard the self-righteous chatter of the guests before the doors to the drawing room even opened. He could feel Abigail straighten in her seat as she cranes her neck to see the approaching party. Or rather, the shining jewelry and flowing dresses that adorned them. John couldn't care less, but the moment he heard the timbre of Flint's voice, his gaze shot upward.

Seceral guests had already filed into the room; some he recognized and some he didn't. There was Richard Guthrie, donned in an even more atrocious suit than before, and Eleanor. There were numerous women and only a handful of men, the redheaded girl whose name he still didn't know trailing behind with Max. At the center of it all was Flint. Just as handsome and cleanly dressed as he had been the night before, and speaking quietly with Eleanor as the others fanned out with their drinks and boring chatter.

The moment Flint's gaze met his own, John's breath stuttered to a halt inside his chest. He swallowed, his posture straightening just slightly as those eyes raked over him. They moved slowly, taking in the fine shirt that was tied at the collar, the pressed pants and passable shoes, before trailing back up towards the ribbon that tied back his hair.

Flint himself had paused in his tracks as he took in the sight of him. The way he was looking at him now... God. John was certain he would never tire of it. Those beautiful green eyes were locked with his own, heavy with a heat and desire that he could sense from even here across the room. Flint's tongue reached out to wet his lips that had slightly parted in want, and his thumb slowly rotated the ring in his forefinger.

John was almost grateful when Miss Guthrie touched his elbow and whispered something into his ear, forcing Flint to break his eye contact. He had felt it with the weight of a physical touch, and the moment it left him he felt as though he could breathe once more. John swallowed, blinked, only half-listening to Abigail's rushed words.

The next time Flint glanced over to him he could see the soft, genuine smile that lifted at the corner of his lips as he looked over him. John swallowed once more in an effort to still his heart. Yet the moment Flint offered a faint nod of approval, he recognized his efforts would be futile.

This was going to be a long night indeed...


	12. A Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=1zvd0zd)   
> 

John should have known this would be a terrible idea from the start. While his aunt and uncle had certainly never been paupers, they were still far separated from the vast wealth exemplified by the grandeur that was Thornfeild Hall. And even if they had been at the "height" of society, that wouldn't change the reality that he had spent the past eight years of his life holed up in an orphanage. Even when bathed, groomed, and dressed in clothes at least resembling that of a gentleman, it was clear that he didn't belong here. And if that were clear to _him_ , it would certainly be more than obvious to everyone else. Hell, even Max and Idelle were better learned in how to conduct themselves in such a proper setting. They had spent years serving under Flint, and Max even longer with the Guthrie's. They knew how to dress, how to act, and most importantly, how to _keep their mouths shut_. Something that he had never been very adapt at, even when he was trying to be on his best behavior. The numerous childhood memories of beatings and nights spent without dinner were proof of that alone.

John shouldn't have given in to Flint's request so easily. Instead he should have politely declined, or better yet fabricated some excuse as to why he couldn't join them. Yet even as such thoughts flitted through his mind he knew he wouldn't have been able to deny him. The moment those lips had captured his own in a tender kiss, so soft and searching, and so distinctly different from anything else he had ever experienced, he knew he would do anything for him. He would lie for him, steal for him, cheat for him. It mattered not what it was, for he would see it done. And so John supposed he could suffer through a lot worse than a long night of menial chatter. Besides, if anything it allowed him the perfect opportunity to drink up the sight that was James Flint.

The man was truly a vision. Flint always was, at least in his eyes, but there was something about the way the candlelight caught against those auburn locks. Brushed back and neat, it reached below his ears without touching the tops of those broad shoulders. The suit he wore now was certainly less formal than the one from the previous night, but was strapping all the same. Yet as flattering and gentlemanly as that attire was, John couldn't help but imagine having the opportunity to tear it off later in the evening. In the meantime, he could only hope that telling flush would steer clear of his cheeks --and his groin.

Flint must have noticed the desire that caused John's gaze to linger for corner of his mouth turned upwards in a smirk. It was fleeting, mischievous, and just as stirring as the rest of him. And sure enough, John had to dip his head in an attempt to keep him from noticing the warmth that surely darkened his cheeks. A futile effort if there ever was one.

God, this was such a terrible idea.

John did his best to direct his attention back to the journals and papers sprawled across his lap. Certainly planning out next week's lessons on writing and biology would be enough to stifle his libido. Academia always seemed to have that effect on him. Not from sheer boredom, as might be the case with others, but from the methodical thinking required. Sure enough he quickly found himself encompassed in his work, offering a periodic nod to prove to Abigail that he was at least trying to listen to her stories.

It wasn't long before the rest of the guests had gathered into the drawing room. Their idle chatter mingled with petty gossip, effortlessly defiling the silence he had come to enjoy here so often as of late. Through the medley of conversation he could just barely distinguish the subjects of class and politics. Talk of "good blood" and "bad blood". Things that he had heard spoken of several times before, but were still unpleasant topics nonetheless. Perhaps it wasn't just the nature of such narrow and shortsighted beliefs, but the fact that it struck so close to home.

Just below the heated discussion. he could hear Abigail's prattle from where she sat close at his side. By now she was talking hurriedly about the gowns the madames were dressed in. Just as always when she was excited, her language had reverted back to her native tongue. Still, John followed along with ease. He gave another polite nod, this time accompanied by a hum, before the familiar timbre of Flint's voice caused his gaze to snap upwards. While the two of them had exchanged their fair share of friendly debates, they always revolved around a given piece of literature. John knew next to nothing about James' world views, political or otherwise. He had learned early on that he was not of the religious sort, but that wasn't so unusual --given that one was actually being perfectly honest about it.

But this? This was something John was truly interested in hearing. He only hoped that such a revelation would not be one that lead to disappointment. That Flint had not requested his presence because he valued his company, but rather to serve as a conversation piece, an oddity. After all, it was quite unusual for a household to have a male tutor instead of the usual governess --and such a young one at that. Yet when John was finally able to make out the words Flint uttered, he was not overcome with shame and embarrassment as he had feared. Instead his words caused his chest to swell with pride.

"--With all due respect, Mr. Guthrie, I think you are mistaken," Flint offered, his expression that perfect mask despite the sharpened edge that existed within his tone. Eleanor remained linked at his arm, a faint smirk on her lips as she listened to the discussion. "Inherited wealth is just that, inherited. It has nothing to do with a man's "blood", nor their character or intellect."

Mr. Guthrie, appearing just as pompous and self righteous as always, offered a derisive snort. "Surely you do not actually believe that," the man countered. "Peasants have existed at the lowest rungs of society since the dawn of time for a reason."

"And what reason would that be?"

"God's will, naturally."

Even from his place across the room John could spot that telling twitch in Flint's jaw. The way his nostrils flared, lips curling slightly, as he worked to steel his features. He looked not unlike a wolf about to snap its jaws. Eleanor managed to recognize the mounting tension with ease and tightened her grip on his forearm.

"Oh I don't know, father," Eleanor interjected, speaking up for the first time that evening. "Flint's latest tutor is actually quite accomplished, considering his circumstances. Or rather his "blood", as you say."

"Don't even get me started upon the subject of tutors, Eleanor," Mr. Guthrie warned with a scoff. "If they aren't eating you out of house and home, they're running off with the governess or having bastard spawn with one of the maids."

"Well," Eleanor chuckled, "at the very least you don't need to worry about them making eyes at the master of the house."

John couldn't deny the smirk that worked its way across his face. Fortunately Flint was far more adept at maintaining that stony mask than he. Still, he could just make out the amusement that flashed within the depths of those handsome green eyes. That trace of mischief that was only made more apparent the moment the man met his gaze.

"Monsieur Silver," Abigail piped up from beside him. "Are you feeling feverish?"

The innocent question was more than enough to tear John out of his reverie. Unfortunately, that did not come without the flush of embarrassment that spread further down his neck, if only briefly.

"No," John answered with that usual practiced smile. "No, I'm alright," he assured her, even as he fought the warmth in his cheeks. "Come now, return to your playing."

"Oui, Monsieur Silver!"

"Quietly..." he chastised.

* * *

 

It went without saying that the evening continued to pass by at a grueling pace. There were only so many discussions of politics, class, and religion that he could possibly weather, especially within a single night. It didn't help that this time he was able to hear every harsh word while he himself was forced to remain silent. The previous night had been rather boring, yes, but in comparison this was absolute torture. The secluded spot they had used to survey the party had been a godsend, truly. From high up on the second floor the guests' pretentious blather had been reduced to little more than a mere drone; something that was easy to ignore.

Not only that, but the thick shadows of the corridor had allowed John to gaze upon Flint's form without restraint. He had been able to lean against the stone railing, relax with his chin on his crossed arms, and watch the evening unfold in peace. Then again, if he were being completely honest, he doubted his gaze had strayed even once from the man below. After all it was not the party that captured his intrigue, but  _him._ He watched as Flint took part in polite conversation --the change in his entire demeanor so drastic he hardly recognized him--, smirked when he shared a dance with the Guthrie woman, and allowed his imagination to wander. Towards the coral lips that had grazed against his own time and time again, the freckles he had traced beneath his fingertips. He thought over the past few trysts they had encountered as well as those that were to come.

Now, however, John found it necessary to refrain from allowing such dangerous thoughts. Unlike last night, there were no shadows to conceal that telling shade of pink that would color his cheeks. And while both he and Abigail were situated behind a curtained room divider, all one had to do was take a step for them to be be brought into view. That being said, John didn't trust that no one would take notice of his lingering gaze. They no one would recognize there desire and affection that existed there, and bring it to light --if only to sate their apparent need for scandal.

Yet John could only keep his eyes down-turned for so long. The book he had borrowed from Flint's library had laid open across his lap for some time now, yet he hadn't read more than a single sentence. He couldn't concentrate. Even without peering up at Flint he saw him clearly within his imagination. Tall and handsome, and with a coy smile that likened him more to a mischievous cherub than a nobleman. Again and again, all he could think of were the events that would take place later in the evening. Despite his better judgement, despite his best efforts to clear his mind and focus on his work. Despite everything. 

_A favor... One that will be graciously returned._

What only made matters worse was the fact that Flint apparently had no reservations when it came to his own charming behavior. Or rather, how it affected John. Certainly it was impossible for Flint to not notice the flush in his cheeks every time he offered a wry smile when no one else was looking. To not be aware of the way his gaze lingered when he loosened his cravat, the way his lips parted when those fingers brushed the hair out his eyes. So distracting was he that John didn't even notice when Abigail snuck away from her spot beside him on the bench. At least, not until mere moments later when she drew further into the center of the drawing room, a softly hummed song lilting through the room. And not only that, but she was _dancing._

"Miss Abigail!" John hissed beneath his breath.

Unfortunately she had already succeeded at gathering the attention of everyone in the room, Flint included. The man dipped his head as a faint chuckle left his lips, a smirk warming Eleanor's face from where she sat beside him. A few of the other guests seemed to share their amusement. Mr. Guthrie was one of the few who seemed less than enthused by her presence, based on the frown that hardened his features.

"And where did you pick up this little doll?" the man questioned.

"I didn't," Flint answered, the tone causing the lines of his jaw to grow slightly tense. "She was left in my care."

"She should be off at school, where she belongs."

"--Mr. Silver."

John's form immediately froze at the mention of his name, or rather, the familiar voice that spoke it. Quickly he straightened his posture before raising from the seat altogether. His hands clasped behind his back, chin straight and eyes searching as he tried to gauge the emotions behind Flint's visage. And, as usual, he was met with failure. It wasn't until the man spoke next that he realized the wasn't in trouble. Rather, Flint was merely seeking to change the subject; or just silence Mr. Guthrie altogether.

"Play something for us on the piano, if you please," Flint requested with a gesture towards the instrument.

John swallowed down the lump in his throat before offering a curt nod. The eyes that followed him across the room felt unbearably heavy even as he slid onto the piano bench. Yet the moment his fingers touched the ivory keys he felt at peace. The music flowed from his fingertips with the same ease as it always did, the gentle notes lilting through the room and assuaging the tension that had begun to form. When Flint leaned over his shoulder to leaf through the sheets of music that fire within him sparked anew. The hair that tickled against his cheek sent a trail of heat straight to his groin, that warm puff of breath causing goose pimples to break out down along his arms.

" _You're doing well_ ," Flint murmured just beneath his breath.

The praise alone was enough to swell his chest with pride. John only wished it was just the two of them in this moment. Yet he needed to be patient.. Privacy was something they would granted later on in the evening, just as everyone else was falling asleep. For now all he could do was enjoy their close proximity while it lasted. Yet the next words that fell from Flint's lips were enough to hide that desire beneath a smug expression.

" _God, these people are tiring_."

While John certainly agreed with the statement he remained silent nonetheless. Instead he allowed his smirk to speak for him.

The moment Flint withdrew John felt the gaping hole left by his absence. However the ache of disappointment was fleeting at best, for out of the corner of his eye he could make out Flint extending a hand towards Abigail in silent askance for a dance. John smiled, his gaze falling back downward as he focused on the melody. He was quite grateful for the distraction, actually. This was something that seamlessly occupied both his body and his mind, and so he was not at all disappointed to continue playing late into the night.

* * *

 

Several hours had passed before Abigail finally began to grow tired. All the excitement had been enough to keep her up far later than usual, but she was still a child, and so the lateness of the hour eventually began to take its toll. So, finally, both of them were excused so that they could retire for the evening. Based on the ongoing chatter from the other guests, however, it was apparent that they would likely remain in the drawing room a bit longer. It was of no consequence, though. John had spent what felt like an eternity waiting for Flint; he could stand to wait a bit longer. Especially with the heady look that existed within those green eyes. 

John was gentle as he lifted Abigail from where she had curled up on the couch. Once again those small arms linked around his shoulders as she mumbled sleepily against his shoulder. He politely bid Eleanor a good evening, the woman having joined Abigail sometime during the night, before taking his leave. Just as he drew away he heard Eleanor speak up, just loud enough for him to hear.

" _Sleep well_ , Mr. Silver."

John didn't even bother trying to hide his smirk.

The process of putting Abigail to bed took longer than it usually did. At least in terms of the few times he had actually done it in lieu of Ms. Mapleton. Not that he could complain. Surprisingly enough he enjoyed the domesticity of it. It was strangely peaceful, tucking Abigail into bed only to sit at her side and weave stories of merchants, Pirates, and faraway lands. Tonight he began by describing the warm beaches and rolling waves of the Caribbean. The palm trees that reached up towards the sky, the calm breeze and the cool waters, so crystal clear you could see the shells scattered along the bottom. It wasn't long before the promise of sailing the seas, as well as the freedom that existed at the heart of such a life, finally lulled Abigail to sleep. John extinguished the lone candle set atop her nightstand before leaving her in peace. The door had hardly clicked shut behind his back before the sound of his name lilted through the air.

"John."

Just as the night before, John glanced upward to see that Flint had been patiently waiting for him. The man stood at the opposite end of the hall, the moonlight just enough to illuminate his features. The cravat had been undone and now hung limply around his neck, wrinkled from the impatient pull of his fingers. Even now the exhaustion Flint felt was evident in those eyes, though it was soon softened by the faintest trace of a smile.

John wasn't granted much time to revel in the sight. Not that he could find it in himself to complain, for the distraction responsible came in the form of Flint himself. Those freckled hands cradled his jaw, a thumb stroking along his cheek as he was coaxed upward to meet him halfway in a searing kiss. The way their mouths slotted together was nearly seamless. Unfortunately, the fervent nature of it was matched only by its brevity. Before John could even blink those lips had left his own, traded for the fingers that clasped around his wrist as he was all but dragged down the hall.

Somehow they had both silently agreed to forgo the library in favor of Flint's private study. Not only was the setting much more intimate --though certainly not like an actual bed would be--, but as it was at the far corner of the estate it lessened their chance of being overheard. Which was necessary as, according to Flint, he was far more vocal than he preferred. Especially with the guests that would continue to sleep beneath his roof for the days to come.

The moment they were alone behind closed doors John was assaulted by yet another kiss. And just as every time before he melted into it without reserve. Flint pressed him flat against the door, his other hand slipping behind him to shove the lock into place. John paid no mind to the wood currently digging into his shoulder blades, nor the doorknob centered at the small of his back. Instead, all he could focus on was the hot mouth melded against his own. The way Flint's tongue parted his lips with ease, licking into his mouth before stroking over his palate.

John's eyes had already fallen shut, the press of those lips and the taste of that tongue proving overwhelming in this moment. He had felt the moan raise in this throat, had heard it even as Flint took it within himself and swallowed it down. Even now he couldn't imagine how he could be so affected by a single kiss. Yet the moment Flint bit down on his lower lip he felt his knees grow weak. 

By the time they finally broke away they were both left breathless. John's eyes just barely cracked open so that he could peer up at the other man. Even in the dim light he could see the black that had eclipsed his eyes. God, Flint was so breathtakingly gorgeous when in the throes lust. He could only imagine how the rest of him would look, stripped bare and flushed, his chest splattered with freckles, rising and falling with each panted breath.

It only took the slight tilt of his chin for John to feel the tickle of those lips against his own. The touch was purposefully light and teasing, just as were their intermingling breaths. Flint was regarding him closely with hooded eyes, and the moment he leaned closer to chase after that promise of a kiss, John pulled away. The frown that hardened Flint's features was answered with a smirk.

"Wicked boy."

John's smirk only widened. "Perhaps," he hummed, considering the accusation as he drew closer. His thumbs hooked into the top of Flint's trousers before slipping beneath the fabric, seeking the supple skin hidden underneath. He traced slow circles into the cut of his hips, his touch light as he peered up at him through a curtain of thick lashes.

"A part of me wants to ask if such behavior warrants a spanking?" John admitted coyly.

The smile that warmed Flint's features was enough to send John's heart into a hammering pace. It was genuine, unguarded and beautiful, just like the chuckle that soon fell from his lips.

"Perhaps some other evening," Flint humored him with that wolfish grin. "Right now, I believe I have something different for you in mind."

The suggestion alone sent a wave of blood straight to his cock. But nothing more-so than the teeth that nipped at his lower lip and the hand that delved into the front of his trousers. Flint took advantage of the resulting gasp to delve deeper. He sucked his tongue, the moan this elicited becoming lost in Flint's mouth as John leaned into it.

John couldn't decide what was more maddening: the tongue tracing along the inside of his mouth or the hand that slowly rubbed along his length. While one stole his very breath, the other robbed him of the flow of blood to his brain. Flint seemed quite content to take his time, alternating between searching lips and nipping teeth, all the while stroking him from root to tip. John moaned, reveling in how his cock so rapidly filled beneath that tantalizing touch.

John couldn't help the whine of protest when Flint suddenly broke away. The man appeared almost smug as he turned to search for something on his desk. Moments later a match was struck and the room was bathed in the warm, flickering light of the sconce. Now, he could finally see Flint clearly. The green of his eyes had been reduced to a thin ring, his lips now pink and swollen. He was beautiful.

The next time their lips met it was soft and slow; nearly sweet. John couldn't help but sigh when Flint's hand returned to the front of his pants to palm along his trapped cock. When his ass bumped against the edge of the desk he reached back, both he and Flint of a single mind as those hands reached beneath his thighs to help lift him up. John purred against Flint's lips, pushing aside a pile of papers as his legs gripped that slender waist.

"Please say you're going to fuck me," John begged against his lips.

Again he felt that chuckle huff out against his skin. "Not quite." Despite his words Flint pressed himself closer, further spreading John's legs as he reached up to tug at his shirt. He undid the first few buttons with skillful ease before impatience got the better of him and he tore it the rest of the way off. Though the shirt wasn't exactly his, it belonged to Idelle's own beau, he couldn't find it in himself to care. He would deal with her wrath over the lost buttons later, but for now all he wished to focus on was the mouth attached to his neck.

Flint sucked at the nape of his neck with bruising force, worrying the sensitive flesh between his teeth until blood pooled beneath the surface. John gasped at the sting of it, his fingers tangling themselves in Flint's hair as he held him close. The man moved lower, leaving a trail of redened marks down his chest before taking a nipple between his teeth. That gasp turned into a struggled moan as John folded forward, his grip on those locks tightening. Flint dragged the flat of his tongue against the nub before drawing away, the puff of his breath causing it to pebble further.

John fought against a shudder as Flint coaxed the rest of his clothing down off his shoulders before letting it drop to the floor below. The cool night air kissed his skin, only making that flush of heat in his cheeks and chest that much more apparent. John tilted his head, their mouths sliding together in a slick kiss as Flint worked his trousers down below his hips. By now John could feel the heat coursing through him with reckless abandon. His cock laid flush against his stomach, his body almost entirely bare while Flint himself remained clothed. It was maddening, but the fingers that combed through his hair quickly eased away any worry.

"Hold out your wrists."

"Yes, _Sir_ ," John teased. Another shudder ran down his spine as he obeyed, presenting his arms so that they touched together at the wrist. This time he wasn't certain if the reaction was brought about by the chill in the air, or from anticipation.

Flint smirked before leaning forward to kiss along his jaw. As he did so he reached up, those fingers combing a stray curl behind his ear before freeing the ribbon that had tied back his hair all evening. The curls spilled free, tickling against the bare skin of his shoulders before finally settling against the nape of his neck. Flint pressed his face against that mop of black, breathing in the scent on him before those lips trailed along his collarbone. John released a shuddered breath, his eyes watching carefully as Flint wrapped the crimson silk around his wrists several times over before ending with a knot. Flint tested the it's give with a gentle tug, making certain the makeshift restraint wasn't too tight before glancing up with questioning eyes.

By now, John was fairly certain the only thing Flint would see in his eyes was burning lust. Based on the way the man swallowed his assumption wasn't correct, yet it wasn't until John offered a nod of his head that those lips met his own once more.

"Spread your legs for me, John..."

" _Ah.._. _fuck, please_." John couldn't help but gasp and swear as Flint returned his attention back to his aching cock. He stroked him slowly, his fingers twisting around the base before tightening at the head, just the way he liked it. John's swallowed, his breath hitching as Flint's hand worked his cock with an expert's touch. Almost instinctively he tugged against the ribbon that tied him. He wished for nothing more than to comb his fingers through those auburn tresses and yank him closer, but for now he would settle for being able to claw against that hard chest. Even if it _was_ clothed.

When Flint's hand left his cock, it was immediately replaced with the wet drag of his tongue. John cried out, his teeth immediately biting down on his lower lip to silence himself before Flint could scold him. Yet the man appeared to be only spurred on by the lilt of that throaty moan. Flint licked slowly along his length, trailing down one side and up the other before taking the swollen head into his mouth. He suckled gently, collecting the pearly white that had beaded at the tip before swallowing down around him. John's fingers tangled in Flint's hair, gripping tightly as Flint took him deeper inch by slow inch. Until finally that nose pressed against his groin. Flint's tongue trailing through the short curls there before laving along the underside of his cock, punching John's breath from his lungs. He licked along the vein with the slow outward pull of his mouth before sinking down once more.

"Please," John gasped, his jaw hanging open and unhinged in pleasure. " _Please_..!"

Flint answered by quickening his pace. He breathed in through his nose as he bobbed his head, taking him to the root each time. John gasped, the sensation of his cock head hitting the back of Flint's throat with every other thrust nearly driving him mad. His fingers tightened in his hair, his back bowing as he drew ever closer to that precipice. Flint's free hand gripped his thigh, his fingernails digging into the skin as he took him into this throat. John moaned out, the sound catching as Flint swallowed down around him, pushing him closer. When Flint hummed in satisfaction, the resulting vibrations were enough to throw him off that ledge altogether.

 _"James..!"_ John's body all but folded over the man as he came, Flint's given name leaving his lips in a reverent moan. He released down his throat in thick pulses, shuddering as Flint swallowed down around him, milking him through his orgasm. The moment the over-sensitivity of it made him whimper, however, Flint withdrew. He coughed slightly, wiping away a stray dribble of come as he caught his breath. As Flint rose up from his spot on his knees John coaxed him closer for a kiss. The slightly bitter taste of himself on his tongue provided a unique thrill; one he was certain he would never tire of. The press of Flint's tongue was slow, sensual, almost as if there wasn't a hurry or a care in the world.

Eventually though, they had to part, and it was then that John noticed the lust that still tented Flint's trousers. The man hadn't come yet. John reached out, his wrists still bound by the silk ribbon, and palmed along that hard length. Almost immediately Flint took a step back. The confusion must have been written across his features for Flint swiftly explained himself.

"I don't need it," Flint assured him, drawing forward after a moment's hesitation so that he could take his fingers through his curls. 

John couldn't help but scoff. Ignoring the the scowl that pulled at Flint's lips, he pressed forward. " _I_ need it." Flint arched a brow. "I want you to be satisfied as well... Please." When he didn't seem too overly convinced, John offered a wry smirk. "Do I need to get on my knees and beg? _Sir_?"

After a moment Flint offered a chuckle with an exasperated shake of his head. "Well... That depends. Do you think you can come again for me?" he asked, tracing along his jawline with the pad of his thumb.

"Oh, _fuck yes._ " John wasn't truly certain if he could, but he knew that he wanted to, and for James he would sure as hell try. Flint didn't seem to need anymore convincing before their mouths pressed together once more. This time when John reached for his breeches he wasn't stopped. The task was a bit difficult with his hands still bound, but eventually he managed to unbutton Flint's trousers and work them down to his hips.

The clash of their lips and teeth only became more heated as John was laid back against the desk. He wiggled, adjusting his position to something a bit more comfortable as he spread his legs. He was still hoping Flint would fuck him --god, how he wanted to feel the burn of that length as it stretched to fill him--, but Flint merely smirked wickedly and shook his head.

Those hands trailed up and down John's chest, ghosting over the faint lines of muscle before teasing and plucking at his nipples. All the while his groin went ignored. Not that John could complain. The pleasure of his orgasm was still coursing through him, and he was fairly certain that a more intimate touch would only boarder along the line of painful. Still, he could feel the heat curling in his belly as Flint worried marks along the slope of his neck. Gentle bites were interspersed with hard kisses and sucking, the man apparently having no reservations when it came to marking him. All this did was fuel John's own desires. To be marked by him, to be _claimed_ in such a way... It sent his heart pounding.

By the time John's cock had finally filled once more, his chest was covered with purpling bruises and sharp indents from his teeth. He sighed, spreading his legs further as Flint rubbed his length against his own. Flint was so hard it was surely painful, the head of his cock shiny and swollen. Flint hissed as he moved against him, a mixture of precome and sweat slicking the way.

"Press your thighs together."

John obeyed without a moment's hesitation. Pressing his legs together he rolled onto his side, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk as Flint loomed over him. He spat into the center of his palm, slicking his cock before pressing it between his thighs. John sighed. It was far from what he truly wanted, but as Flint thrust between his legs, his cock rubbing against his perineum and hitting his balls, he figured it would do. Before long Flint's hand came down to rest havily on his knee, forcing his legs to form a tighter channel to fuck into.

They moaned out in unison as their cocks rubbed together. The desperate thrust of his hips began to lose any sense of rhythm as Flint neared that edge. John did what he could to help him along, reaching up to pull Flint into a sloppy kiss as he gripped his thighs. Flints moaned into his mouth, his body shuddering as he drew closer, closer. A few more thrusts and Flint came, the mess of pearly white wetting down his thighs as Flint pressed over him, the sheer weight of him simply intoxicating. The man's hand slipped between John's legs, stroking him once, twice, before he came for the second time that night, only adding to come that dripped down his stomach. The two of them fought to catch their breath as they laid back against the paper-strewn desk. The rapid raise and fall of their chests occurred nearly in tandem as they relaxed, and simply enjoyed the warmth of the other.


	13. Sins

John's form was still as he continued to lay back against the oak desk. The only movement came from the steadying rise and fall of his chest, his eyes having slipped shut as he reveled in the lingering pleasure of his orgasm. That delicious warmth ebbed through him, extending from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. By the time it reached his fingertips it had been reduced to little more than a faint tingling sensation. Still, the satiation that loosened his muscles and made his limbs grow heavy persisted, permeated to his very bones. It was only made more pleasant by the heavy press of that body against his own.

Flint's breath huffed out against the slope of his neck, hot and damp as he fought to regain his breath. It cooled the thin layer of sweat that had come to cling to his skin, the shock of it sending another shiver down John's spine. Unfortunately the way Flint was folded over him, pinning him to the desk below, was never meant to last. A firm kiss was placed against his collarbone before the delicious weight of him vanished completely.

John's eyes blinked open, a soft sigh passing his lips in mourning of the loss. Yet the sight of Flint's flushed cheeks and pert lips was enough to assuage his disappointment, if only for a moment. The man looked positively undone. Hair mussed and chest heaving, the lust and affection that burned in those eyes enough to reduce him to cinders. And John could only smile. Not from the pleasure that still lingered even now that his cock had grown soft, but from the fact that he had been able to reduce the man to such a state in the first place.

Flint took his time tucking himself back into his trousers, not wandering far as he straightened the rest of his clothing. The cravat was pulled free from where it draped around his shoulders and was used to wipe the mess from his hand. All the while that tender gaze never strayed, the man apparently just as adamant to commit the sight of the other to memory. John felt those eyes on him as if they were a physical touch, a gentle caress, and he basked in it.

It wasn't until Flint extended a hand towards him moments later that John realized his wrists were still bound. He shifted back against the table, crooking his leg at the knee to give himself more leverage, before accepting the assistance offered him. That hand grasped his own, the other slipping behind his shoulder so that he could better pull him up into a sitting position. Already John could feel the dull ache in his back from lying on such a hard surface. If the skin there wasn't already darkened by bruises, it certainly would be the following morning. Even so, he couldn't find it in himself to complain. Even if he had gotten a splinter in the ass cheek, he knew it would be but a small price for the pleasure of lying back and spreading his legs for Flint.

Quietly, Flint worked the knot free with practiced fingers before unwinding the ribbon from around John's wrists. Almost immediately he began to check over the skin, his touches light as he ensured that he hadn't indeed fastened the makeshift restraint too tightly. The only evidence that remained were the faint indents in his skin, ones that Flint promptly began to massage away with his fingertips. The sense of intimacy conveyed by such attention and care was enough to make his skin glow. And when those lips touched against his own, god how his heart sang. So much so that John had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something very, very foolish.

When they finally parted that hand came down to stroke along his jaw. "Thank you." Flint murmured the words, his thumb brushing over his lower lip as he did so.

John had to swallow down the dryness in his mouth before he could find the words, _any_ words. "For what?" he asked, feigning a chuckle if only relieve his own uncertainty. "Making a mess of your desk?"

"For accompanying me," Flint answered simply, his other hand still tracing small circles against his wrist. "For suffering those unbearable guests and feigning deafness to their stupidity."

John smirked. "It wasn't that difficult, actually" he admitted after a moment. "To be perfectly honest, my mind was elsewhere more often than naught.."

The corner of Flint's mouth twitched upwards, that familiar glint reaching his eyes as he found humor in his words. It seemed that the man didn't need to press to know just what he was alluding to. The "sinful thoughts" and lingering gazes had surely not gone unnoticed by him, certainly not after Eleanor's smart remark about the situation. The revelation of such a scandalous and unexpected affair would surely send those old crones reeling towards an early grave. It was almost a pity that they were too blind to see beyond the tips of their own noses.

"Can I persuade you to join us for another evening?"

John's grin only widened. "At this point, Sir, I'm fairly certain I would do anything you asked of me." He couldn't stop the words before they came tumbling out of his mouth. Fortunately, based on the light that glimmered in those tepid pools, Flint still thought he was merely trying to be clever.

"Is that so?"

John hummed, Flint's apparent amusement only serving to spur him on.

"Even if what I asked of you was wrong?" Somehow the change that had darkened Flint's tone went unnoticed, as did the furrowing of his brow.

"Oh, yes," John assured him with that silver tongue, foolishly appealing to the avid storyteller within. "Anything. Even truly _terrible_ things. I would lie for you, steal from those who did you wrong, and cheat those that were foolish enough to consider it. Hell, I'd even aid you in waging a war against the world, if that was what you wished." Only after uttering those words did he finally notice how drastically Flint's countenance had faltered. The warmth had all but retreated from those eyes, shadowed by sadness and uncertainty even as that gaze fell downward. And god, how deeply that expression cut him. "Flint?" he gently prodded, his own brows knitting together in confusion. Had he over-stepped?

"Be careful, Mr. Silver," Flint eventually warned, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he seemed to consider his next words. Though his tone was unusually rough around the edges, and perhaps even a bit broken, his touch remained that of a lover. The cravat Flint had come to clutch in his fist was now used to wipe the mess of pearly white from John's stomach. The rough drag of it was enough to make him shudder.

"I have committed my own sins..." Flint murmured lowly. "Carried out my own atrocities." As the man spoke his features began to twist into something darker, something distraught. The touch of that cloth paused briefly before slipping lower to clean between his thighs. While the come had already begun to grow tacky in the evening air, it was not before some of it had escaped onto the tabletop below. Yet it was was wiped away with ease. Still, Flint's touch lingered against his skin. "I was not lying before, when I told you that if you looked too closely you would find nothing beautiful."

John fought back the lump forming in his throat. "James..." he began with a slight shake of his head. He still didn't understand where all of this was coming from. After a breadth of hesitation, both to collect his thoughts and push past the way Flint's careful attention made his heart swell, he found his words. " _Where are you.._?" he wondered.

Those brilliant green eyes blinked up at him as Flint gradually seemed to come back into himself. His features softened, if only just, though the pensive expression that followed seemed somewhat forced. It was almost as if he were just now hearing the words he had uttered. As if he too were lost as to their meaning. Yet there was something else there, something John couldn't quite put his finger on. Whatever it may have been, it was momentarily forgotten as those fingers clasped his chin, coaxing him close until their lips melded together once more. The kiss was soft, slow; almost as if it were being offered as some form of silent apology. Only what exactly was he apologizing for..?

Even after Flint broke away he sought to maintain the physical closeness with the light press of his forehead. When John peered up at him next there wasn't a trace of that tortured expression to be seen. Instead, in its place was that practiced mask that began to strip him bare of any emotion altogether. And in the pit of his stomach, John knew that to be even worse. Yet before he could so much as utter a word, Flint broke the silence.

"It's getting late." Even though Flint didn't so much as utter the words _you should go_ , he didn't have to. It was clear from his tone alone that he was being dismissed.

While John at least managed to bite back the desire to protest, he couldn't help the exasperated shake of his head. Nor could he stop the clipped "right" that was muttered beneath his breath. After all, he could only do so much to mask his budding irritation. When it came to Flint, that is... The only thing that was more frustrating than Flint suddenly pushing him away was the fact that, unlike him, he could no longer hide behind a practiced facade. Flint had broken down that barrier, yet the vulnerability and trust that went along with it was not reciprocated. And it stung, more than the bruises trailing down his spine and the bite marks across his chest.

John didn't tarry as he slid off the desk so that he could straighten out his own clothing. He tugged his trousers back above his hips before stooping down to collect the rumpled shirt from where it had been tossed to the floor. The missing buttons were glanced at only briefly before John pulled it down over his shoulders. Already he could imagine the scolding that would follow, not to mention Idelle's merciless teasing, but he would worry about that later. For now he just wanted to get out of here so that he could clear his head...

John had taken great care to avoid Flint's gaze as he collected himself. Not out of anger, no, but simply because he couldn't bear to look upon that stoic expression. That mask that was so skillfully paraded around in front of others, in front of _strangers_. It was something that had been missing long before their affair began --if it could even be considered as such--, and was something he hadn't seen a trace of since. Still, how foolish could he be to have thought he'd seen the last of it.

"John."

The lock on the door had only just been pushed to the side when the soft timbre of that voice met his ears. A sigh passed John's lips as he halted in his tracks. A bit begrudgingly, he turned away from the door only to lean back against it, his arms folded. Yet whatever agitation may have hardened his features fell away the moment he saw the way Flint was peering over at him. That mask had disappeared, giving way instead to what he could only describe as a broken shell of a man. Honestly, he wasn't sure quite sure which he loathed more: A strong man hiding behind a facade, or a tortured one finding difficulty holding it intact. The next time John released a breath, all his hurt and frustration escaped with it.

Flint himself appeared to notice the change, his own countenance gentling as he swallowed thickly. The ring on his forefinger rotated slowly beneath the guide of his thumb, the nervous tick not going unnoticed by the other man. After a pause he finally seemed to regain use over his tongue. "I've done horrible things in my past," he explained, his voice grating. As he spoke those green eyes met his own, wide and pleading as they searched over his face. "To be honest, I still am. Perhaps one day I can share it with you, just--" Another swallow, his cheek twitching as he dropped his gaze. "--Not now."

John fought against the uncertainty that arose from such loaded words. Despite the torrent of thoughts flitting through his mind --the questions, the theories--, he managed to offer a faint nod. He had never been one to allow himself to remain in the dark. There was great power in knowledge, and it was something it he hadn't gone without in quite a while. This... Not knowing. It drove him mad. But for Flint, for James.. he would tolerate it, at least for a little while. Even as his mind burned with questions, he remained silent as he stepped froward to guide Flint into a tender kiss. The only words that fell from his lips thereafter were the soft assurances of " _it's_ _alright_ ".


	14. Secrets

When the following morning finally came, John allowed himself to remain in bed far later than usual. Unfortunately, that did not inherently mean that he had been graced with a few additional hours of sleep. After all, waking with the sun was a habit he had formed early on thanks to the years spent at the orphanage, and the early sermons they had been forced to suffer through. And as he had spent the majority of the night tossing and turning, it would be fair to say that he hadn't gotten much rest --if any at all.

Unlike most nights, his slumber was not kept at bay by tender thoughts and memories of Flint, nor by his apparently insatiable lust for the man. Rather, it was from the way his countenance had altered so drastically and without a hint of warning. The stern frown that had hardened his features was not from the usual anger, but anguish. Eyes that were usually so calm and calculating had been blown wide with what he could only describe as uncertainty, and perhaps even fear. The expression was a tortured one, and it haunted him. In all honesty it likely would for several days to come, for it was something he had not witnessed since his early years at the orphanage. Not since that particularly harsh winter when he and the other children had mourned the loss of friends and siblings, their lives having been stolen far too soon by the throes of sickness.

This was certainly not the first time Flint had caused a wrenching sensation to form deep within his gut. He clearly remembered the day that shaggy dog had shoved past him and knocked the letters from his hands, only for Flint's horse to nearly run him down not moments later. Yet instead of taking responsibility for his own careless riding, he had become the object of Flint's scorn and was forced to shoulder the blame. He remembered the personal questions and snide remarks that had been aimed at him the following day. That evening he had all but shouted at Abigail as they sat beside the fire in the drawing room, the man having been overcome by a fit of rage over her insistence on weaving ghost stories.

Then of course there was that late night in which Flint had shared with him the story of Thomas and Miranda Hamilton. Not only of who they had been, but of their ill-met fate shortly after the birth of their daughter, one Miss Abigail. The truth of it, that is. Not how they had passed away from illness as he had been previously told that day beside the river, but that they had both been murdered by Alfred Hamilton, so disgusted was the lord by their licit affair.

Yet even then, the emotions that had twisted his features that evening were far different than the ones he had just witnessed. There had been anger, yes, and heartache. But fear... That was something that had remained strikingly absent. Not just then, but in all the time that he had known him. In fact, John couldn't even imagine an instance that would incite such a reaction in the man. So what had changed? Why now?

Flint had admitted to John before that he was not a good man, that he was a sinner. What could he have possibly done in his past to elicit such a response to a harmless jest? Truly, he had no idea. It was true that Miss Abigail had spent the majority of her life in France under the care of the late Hamilton's trusted servants, but... While such a situation was certainly not ideal, there was no way it could have been the cause of that haunted expression. 

John wished nothing more than to ask, to pry. Being kept in the dark about something so apparently significant... It was maddening. Not unlike a persistent itch beneath his skin, one that wouldn't be satisfied until he knew the truth of it. Yet John would do his best to keep silent on the matter. While under normal circumstances he would do anything within his power to obtain the information, whether it be by tricking others to divulge their secrets or simply by old-fashioned snooping, for now he would behave. After all, this wasn't some stranger that was of no consequence. This was Flint. James... A man he had come to care for deeply. And if this was something that he wished to keep secret, then he would let him do just that. No matter how frustrating it was. He could only hope that one day Flint would place enough trust in him to share the truth.

With an usually heavy sigh John reached up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. It was unfortunate that he couldn't remain in bed all morning, but there were things that needed tending to. His lessons with Miss Abigail weren't due to start for several more hours, but he still needed to repair Mr. Featherstone's shirt before Idelle throttled him. And what's more, he was starving.

John stifled a yawn as he arched back against the mattress, his joints popping and muscles warming as he stretched out like a cat in the sun. When he finally managed to climb out of bed, another yawn escaping his chest, the sight that greeted him gave him pause. Across the room stood a full length mirror, and in its surface he could clearly see the marks Flint had left behind along his throat. They varied in size and shape almost as much as they did in color. Some were a deep scarlet while others a took on a more purple hue. And as John lifted the nightshirt over his head he could better see how they scattered further down his chest and stomach. He could even spot the faint divets Flint's teeth had left behind in the muscle surrounding his nipple. The evidence of Flint's passions, the way he had marked him without restraint... It warmed his blood. Just as the lingering ache in his spine from where he had been laid back against the desk, spread open and wrists bound.

John exhaled sharply and closed his eyes in a vain attempt to drive these thoughts from his mind. There would be plenty of time to revisit these memories at a later date. For now, there were things to do. John turned away from the mirror as he pulled on a fresh pair of clothing. Fortunately he was able to find something with a high enough of a collar to conceal the bruises that had been worried into his skin. He would need to advise Flint to be more cautious about that in the future. While he doubted anyone would be able to make the leap to the truth of their affair --or whatever it is this was--, he doubted the idea that he was fucking one of the maids would be much of an improvement. Perhaps  he could suggest he turn his attention to his inner thighs instead. Somewhere no one would ever see; a sight just for him.

Blue eyes squeezed shut as John gave a quick shake of his head. God, what was this man doing to him?

* * *

 

Locating Max turned out to be a far easier task than John had originally anticipated. While she was not in the kitchens or the main hall giving orders as she typically was this time of day, the retreating form of an agitated Eleanor Guthrie was more than enough to let him know which direction to head in. When he found her shortly after she was sitting at the window with the redheaded girl right beside her. Just as the past few times he had seen her, her face was hardened in a stern expression.

For a  moment John could only find amusement in the fact that both he and Max apparently shared a "type". Yet it was fleeting, the grin on his face promptly wiped away the moment that harsh gaze landed on him. Max patted her hand lightly, the gesture somehow enough to soften her features, and raised a brow at him in silent askance. Wordlessly and with a faint apologetic smile, John lifted up the ruined shirt for her to see. The damage was clear. Not only were several buttons missing --which he had unfortunately been unable to find--, but there was a small tear along the seam.

Max rolled her deep brown eyes with a sigh. "We'll continue this later, oui?" Her words were just above a whisper as she addressed the redhead --Ann, he just remembered--, before placing a soft kiss against her cheek. She only nodded, her expression a hardened mask. However, she did make sure to convey her frustration by shouldering past him roughly as she went on her way.

"Was I interrupting something?" John couldn't help but ask.

"Yes, but today has been filled with nothing less," Max admitted as she pinched the bridge if her nose. "And out of all of them, yours is the least unpleasant."

John nodded slowly. After a moment he finally spoke once more, gesturing towards the torn fabric. "So... Do you think you can help?"

"For my friends? Always."

* * *

 

For the most part the two of them worked in silence. And by "the two of them", he actually meant just Max. While she had made a fair attempt at teaching him the basics of sewing, she could only stand to oversee his struggling for so long. After several minutes she finally batted his hands away with a frustrated sigh of, "Oh, I'll just do it myself."

So John now sat idly by, doing what he could to keep his mouth shut and preserve the silence Max so enjoyed. After all, it was the least he could do. He rested lazily against the table, his chin propped up on his hand as he watched Max work. Her fingers threaded the needle and pulled it through each stitch with a practiced ease. Though her lips remained pursed and her brows drawn tight in concentration, this must be much simpler a task than embroidery. Or at the very least that's what he assumed based off of the fact that she wasn't currently swearing up and down.

"You should tell Flint to be more careful."

The lilt of Max's voice cut through the silence, effectively capturing his attention. Normally he would have side-stepped such an accusation, but this was Max. She was one of the few that could always see straight through his lies. So instead he offered a sheepish, telling grin.

"So, you heard about that?" While Idelle knew about their trysts, that was only because she had happened to notice the bruises along his neck. He certainly didn't offer up that knowledge of his own volition. And now that he thought about it, he shouldn't have considered for even a second that Idelle would keep such a secret to herself.

"There's nothing that goes on in this household that I don't know about," Max assured him.

John was about to offer a snide remark when those words gave him pause. _There was nothing that she didn't know about..._ Almost immediately his thoughts shifted towards Flint and whatever sins and atrocities lay shrouded in his past. Not only that, but what ties may exist between them and the mystery that surrounds the "abandoned" tower at the corner of the estate. The crimson scarf that billows from the opened window on those warmer days, the small candle that glows faintly from within late at night, the "ghost" that haunts these halls. The thing that was never discussed or even acknowledged, even after that narrowly-avoided attempt on Flint's life. The secret that became harder and harder to ignore with each passing day, and with each night spent beneath the warmth of Flint's touch.

Perceptive as always, Max sensed the direction his thoughts were taking him and interjected before he could give rise to his own question. "I just hope you're being cautious, mon cher," she continued. "People like him... They may make for good masters of the house, but in terms of  friendship, and certainly anything more... It is only destined to end in ruin."

John's eyes flicked down towards the table as a frown pulled at his lips. "You know this?"

"I know enough."

"Because of the Guthrie woman, I take it?" John wondered. He could feel the heavy weight of that glare before he even looked back up towards her. Sure enough he should have kept his mouth shut. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, just as they always were when someone dared overstep their boundaries.

When she finally answered her tone was clipped. "Yes."

John released a sigh as he scratched at the back of his head. "I shouldn't have said that," he relented. "I misspoke."

Max hummed softly, seemingly weighing the merit of his apology as she began to replace the shirt's missing buttons. "You think that they're different," she began after a considerable pause. "That they care for you, that what exists between you is strong and genuine.. And yet the moment that bond is tested it breaks apart."

John's mouth opened only to fall shut once more. The words that had come to mind did so effortlessly, yet the moment they did he realized just how absurd they were. He had wanted to say that Flint was different. That while there were parts of him that remained hidden away, secrets he would perhaps never know, he could see past that. That when James kissed him and held him, he couldn't help but sense that there was something more. But then again that was exactly her point, wasn't it? Just because he felt it, that irresistible pull that could only be described as love... that didn't make it so.

"Even if your relationship with Flint was different from what I had with Eleanor.. Even if it was stronger, the situation remains the same," Max warned him gently. "He is still a nobleman. One that needs to marry to preserve his wealth, and to bare a child that will inherit the estate when he is old and gray. That's the truth if it." She tied off the thread before moving down to the next button.

"Well that was dark," John finally managed. Despite the nature of the conversation he couldn't help but jest. It was but a pitiful attempt to assuage his own uncertainty.

When Max smiled it was rather melancholy. "The world often is."

John found himself unable to argue. After all, he knew firsthand how dark and cruel the world could be. How unfair. But even so one thing remained certain: Even if his relationship with Flint was destined to meet a terrible and tragic end, he would not shy away from it. Instead he would continue down that shadowed path. He would revel in every moment he shared with the man, and he would remain by his side for as long as he would have him. No matter how painful it eventually became. 

When John returned the newly-mended shirt to Idelle not an hour later, she seemed far more interested in how exactly it had been torn in the first place. Truthfully, John was fairly certain he would've preferred a harsh tongue lashing in it's place. Yet, as with most things, he was never quite so lucky. And so he had to suffer through nearly half an hour of prodding questions spoken by smirking lips. He wasn't even sure why she bothered asking about the torrid details when, based on the gleam in her eyes, she already knew.

John was almost grateful when he felt that familiar tug against his sleeve. Just as always it was Miss Abigail, his avid pupil that was always so eager to start the day's lessons. And in this case she made for a perfect excuse for him to take his leave. Just as he started making his way back down the corridor, that small hand clasped in his own, he heard Idelle call out after him.

"Don't worry about the shirt, by the way! You'll make it up to me later."

John only rolled his eyes.

* * *

John was grateful for the distraction, truly he was. Not once during that entire afternoon did he think of Flint and the way that tender expression had stolen away before his very eyes. He didn't think of the anguish that had darkened those green depths, nor the warning that had hardened his tone. He didn't think of secret towers or ghosts, or pasts that were better long-forgotten. Instead there was only his teachings of the world that lay beyond these walls, and the large brown eyes that stared at him intently as she soaked up every word. After all, the subjects of geography and biology were ones they both held dear to their hearts. For within it there lay the possibility to sate their mutual desire to travel and explore the world. To be able to see the whales and schools of fish that swam through the vast oceans, and the tropical birds that ruled the skies.

It was a pity when their lesson had to reach its inevitable end. John was peering over Abigail's shoulder as she took in a detailed illustration of a great white shark, pointing out the gills and various fins, when a familiar voice caught his attention.

"Miss Abigail, you're about to miss your supper!"

A frown pulled at John's lips as he glanced over at the clock. So lost was he in his teaching that he had kept the girl over an hour later than usual. "My apologies," John relented, though it was a hollow gesture at best. "It seems I lost track of time."

The woman only scowled. "Yes, well- Come along dear." She was just leaving with Abigail when she appeared to remember something. "Oh, and the master has requested your presence in the drawing room."

"Yes, I'm aware," he offered as he began straightening the texts that had been splayed over the table." Rest assured, Miss Abigail and I will be there to join them this evening."

"No, he wishes to speak with you now."

At this John arced a brow. "I see..."

Sure enough, by the time John finally made his way down the hallway he spotted Flint patiently waiting for him. He stood outside the doors to the drawing room, hands lightly clasped behind his back though it did little to hide the way he was fidgeting. His thumb moved over one of the thick rings on his finger, spinning the piece of jewelry absentmindedly. At the sound of his approaching footsteps those eyes lifted to meet his own/

"Ah, John."

"Is everything alright?" John asked once he was near enough for the words shared between them to remain private. His own fingers twitched as he fought the desire to reach out and touch him. To lightly tug at the hem of his shirt before straightening his cravat. To trace his fingertips over the freckles that sprinkled over the back of his hand.

Flint swallowed, the muscle in his jaw locking in place as he offered a nod. "Yes.." He cleared his throat then. "I merely wished to see if you would still be joining us this evening."

John couldn't help the faint smile that warmed his expression. So that was it. Flint was worried that he upset him the night before, enough to cause himself to start pushing away. "Of course," he answered, that smile melding into a more mischievous smirk. "Of course... I already told you that I would do anything for you."

The man's adams apple bobbed once more as he gave another nod. "Good."

It was a pity they weren't locked away in the privacy of his study, for in this moment there was nothing John wanted more than to draw close and will away that unease with the press of his lips. For now, however, he would have to settle for taking a single step closer. It was all he could do right now to bridge the space between them, physical or otherwise, yet for Flint it seemed enough.

The tension that had stolen Flint's features began to soften beneath his gaze, and soon enough the corner of his mouth twitched upwards in the barest of smiles. "Good," he repeated.


	15. A Game

It was unfortunate yet understandable that their exchange out in the corridor was one that left John wanting. Not only due to its brevity, but from the forced innocence of it all. After all, this time they were not graced with the safety and privacy provided by the locked doors of his study or personal library. Even if they had chosen to steal away into the drawing room, it would have been all too easy for a servant or one of Flint's guests to walk in on them. So they had to maintain their distance, physical or otherwise, and remember just who they were. Who they were supposed to be. In the eyes of society the two of them were too far separated. So no matter how much John wished to reach out and touch the man, no matter how much he desired to speak his given name, he forced himself to keep within the boundaries of his station.

While the secrecy revolving around their torrid affair may have provided its own unique thrill towards the start, it had long begun to grow stale. After all, while John Silver was known for many things, subtlety had certainly never been one of them. The same could be said of his patience and self control, or rather the lack thereof. He had long grown accustomed to acting on his impulses, to doing whatever necessary in order to gain the upper hand. It had always been that way. The moment he saw an opportunity, he took it; he couldn't help it. It was a sickness, truly. One that had only strengthened during the years spent in that orphanage, struggling not only to survive but to scrap his way to the top. To reach a position where he would actually be worth something, until finally he would be able to break free and make a life for himself. 

And that was exactly what John had done. Here he was, living a comfortable life in a warm home that he could call his own, working for a modest wage --even if he hadn't actually been paid yet--, and surrounded by people he considered friends. Perhaps even family. Yet in this moment he was being forced back into that small box Hornigold and the others had tried to confine him to. That of a silent, obedient man that would fade easily into the background. It wasn't by Flint's own doing, certainly, but by circumstance. And it was frustrating all the same.

Whatever it was that existed between them... It was a double-edged sword. Never before had John bothered to worry about the welfare of another. Not as he did now. Not like this. Even with Billy he had known that he could take care of himself should something happen. But with Flint... Well. He was quickly realizing just how strongly his words and actions could affect another. Not only that, but how he needed to be careful. For now, not only would he be the one to face the repercussions, but Flint would be as well. He cared about him and his reputation, and he refused to be the one to tarnish it all because he couldn't maintain control over his urges.

So their talk was kept professional and straightforward. John assured him that both he and Abigail would join them in the drawing room as they had done the night before, and that was that. Though try as he might, John couldn't ignore the way his fingers twitched as he denied himself the touch of Flint's skin, and the warmth of his mouth, as they said their goodbyes and left to return to their duties. If John hadn't been counting the days until these noblemen were set to make their departure, he certainly was now.

This time when John followed little Abigail into the parlor there was no trace of that bubbling uncertainty that had existed before. He now knew what to expect, both from these people and from the evening in general. What's more, he was now confident in his ability to bite back any snide retorts and keep his mouth shut. There was no need to worry about embarrassing Flint or  harming his reputation. He could handle himself.

As the hours slowly passed them by, John realized how much easier it was to concentrate on getting some actual work done. He surmised this was from how completely sated he still was from the night before. The sight of Flint's swollen lips stretched around his cock was a beautiful one, and was something he had often fantasized about those late nights when he couldn't sleep. Yet when compared to the real thing it made his imagination seem paltry at best. Even now his body felt wonderfully warm, loose, and heavy in a way that it hadn't in quite some time. And he chose to revel in it.

Unfortunately, the calm and peaceful chatter that had so easily gone unnoticed was not meant to last. It was not a thinly-veiled insult that had eventually captured his attention, nor was it the start of some argument they cleverly chose to disguise as a debate. Instead it was the abrupt mention of the "ghost" that supposedly haunted Thornfield Hall. And as per usual, it was Abigail that decided to bring up the subject. This time to explain the "mysterious" disappearance of a novel one of the noblewomen had been reading through. 

"Perhaps it was the ghost that took your book, Madmoiselle Hudson," Abigail piqued from her place beside the fire. Up until now she had been quietly playing with her dolls, but based on that familiar glint in her eye they would not continue to be so lucky.

Immediately John's gaze shifted over towards Flint to gauge his reaction. He would never forget the way he had shouted at Abigail over her mentioning off the stories  and he feared what would happen if the situation were to repeat itself, especially in their current company. His concern was all but wasted, however. While Flint thumbed at the ring on his forefinger as he often did when feeling out of sorts, he otherwise seemed perfectly composed.

"A ghost?" a curt-looking woman asked with a scoff. As she continued to search over the end table it became clear that this was Ms. Hudson. "Don't be ridiculous!"

John was just about to return his attention to writing out next week's lesson plan when someone else spoke up. "I don't know," they mused. "Could have sworn I heard something last night." This time it was Anne. The woman stood near the door, her voice just as rough as her expression as she cast him a glance. "Moaning. Near the library, I think."

The charcoal of John's pencil snapped. While he was able to steel his expression within moments, the reaction was still exactly what the redhead had desired. At least that's what he gathered from the smug smirk that curled at the edge of her mouth. Was this all because of his earlier interruption?

This time when John's gaze shifted towards Flint the man appeared just as caught off guard as he. His lip twitched at the same time those vibrant green eyes hardened in a silent warning. While she didn't shrink beneath the weight of that glare as any sane person would, she also didn't  press the matter. For that he was grateful, even if the innuendo was apparently lost on these people. 

"That's seems rather unsettling," Eleanor offered with that same small, telling smirk upon her lips.

Ms. Hudson, scowling as she finally gave up her search, didn't seem too convinced. "Absolute rubbish," she muttered with a roll of her eyes. 

John could sense the tension that remained locked in Flint's form even from where he sat across the room. Fortunately, so too had Eleanor caught on to his uncertainty and after a brief pause she spoke up once more.

"You know," she drolled out, "I do believe there is a way in which we can sort out this "ghost" nonsense once and for all."

"What did you have in mind?" Flint inquired, his expression stern as he shifted to sit back in his seat.

"A game."

At this Flint arched a brow. "You mean Ouija?"

Eleanor's smirk widened as her eyes took on a mischievous gleam. "Exactly," she nodded. "You don't happen to have a board lying about, by chance?"

Flint slowly rotated the ring on his thumb as the two of them seemed to engage in a silent, private conversation. Though the look they exchanged likely lasted little more than a few seconds, John noticed every detail of it. He saw the way Flint's other brow piqued in interest. The upward twitch of his lip as his fidgeting stilled, his knuckles instead moving to graze along the underside of his chin. Until finally that glint in his eye matched Eleanor's very own.

"I might," Flint finally conceded after a moment. Then there it was, that flash of white as his lips curled upward in thar wolffish grin. "Anyone else interested in joining in a game of the un-explainable?"

John had never heard of such a game before. However, over the next hour he became quite familiar with the concept and how it was to be played. How the wooden triangle was moved across the board to spell out a certain message, supposedly guided not by the several hands touching it, but from a spirit long since passed. At least that's how it was supposed to be, as far-fetched as it was. Even if John did believe in ghosts, which was something he would likely forever be uncertain of, it was obvious that Flint and Eleanor were the ones manipulating the triangle's movements. Even if it wasn't clear to anyone else. While everyone else, including Abigail, had their eyes fixed to the piece sliding across the board, John looked at them. He saw the minute glances that passed between them every so often.

And so, the better part of that night was spent with Flint's guests gathered around a small table. If their complete and utter gullible nature wasn't amusing enough, the fact that they were being insulted by a "ghost" certainly was. Flint and Eleanor took turns controlling the triangle's movements, picking their victim based on whomever spoke out or insisted that they were next. They spelled out a myriad of messages.

Ms. Hudson was deemed P-R-I-D-E-F-U-L by this supposed troubled spirit, much to her agitation. Another was described as G-U-L-L-I-B-L-E, and another as S-T-O-O-G. John couldn't help but notice the way Eleanor's eyes shined when the board spelled out G-R-E-E-D during her father's turn. It wasn't until after Eleanor herself was pressured into taking a chance with the ghost that the evening reached its end. Flint, now the only one controlling the piece, spelled out H-E-A-R-T-L-E-S. Almost immediately her expression hardened, her jaw locking in place as she aimed a harsh glare in Flint's direction. With a huff she stood from her seat, her gaze briefly flicking over to John before pointing out the lateness of the hour before taking her leave. The others eventually followed suit, some of the men chuckling with one another while the women bickered amongst themselves over the ghost's "uncouth accusations". 

So too did John have to slip away. Just as he had done for the past few nights, he carried a sleeping Abigail back to her bedroom so that he could tuck her in. And just as those times before, he did not have to seek out Flint, for the man was right there waiting for him.

"That was quite an evening," John offered, referring more to the game of Ouija than anything else. The only response he got came in the form of a faint smirk, one that he could only see from the moonlight streaming off his face.

"So," John continued as he pulled the door closed softly behind him. "Apparently I sound like a ghost?" Despite the smirk that tugged at his lips, the apologetic nature of his words were genuine. The last thing he wanted was for the two of them to get caught, yet it seemed he had grown careless the night before, so caught up was he in the heat of the moment.

"So it would seem," Flint agreed. Despite the seriousness of it all those green eyes were alight with amusement. "However," he continued, his volume dropping an octave as he drew ever closer, "I think that perhaps we should..."

John sighed, knowing just where Flint was headed before he could even finish his sentence. "Right.."

Flint offered a small, melancholic smile in ways of an apology. "At least until they're gone," he assured him, his voice surprisingly rough for such gentle words.

John only hummed as he drew ever closer. He reached, lightly fumbling with the front of Flint's suit as he mulled over his words. "I can't say that I won't miss our evening... Activities," he relented. "But I do understand."

"There's something else, too."

John arched a brow.

Flint frowned slightly before continuing. "I'm afraid I need to take a trip into town tomorrow."

John's nose wrinkled. "You mean you're leaving me alone with these people?" he accused.

"Just for the day."

John groaned. "You are a cruel man," he muttered, his thoughts already drifting towards ones full of dread. He could hardly stomach these people with Flint presence, he couldn't imagine suffering their company alone. Even with Miss Abigail.

Flint's touch was light as he clasped John's chin and tilted it upwards. "I promise I'll make it up to you." That gaze was deliciously dark as the man peered down at him.

At this John couldn't help but grin. "Oh..?"

"Anything," Flint promised.

Despite himself, John's thoughts couldn't help but drift towards their teasing conversation from the previous night. Before their words had fallen silent to instead give way to heated kisses.

"Even a spanking..?"

Now it was Flint's turn to arch a brow in curiosity. "Would this be something you'd enjoy..?" he asked, those lips hovering just above his own.

John smirked. "I'd like to think it'd  be a pleasant experience for the both of us," he coaxed him mischievously.

A similar smirk darkened Flint's features before those lips touched his own in an acquiescing kiss. One that was so hidden by the thick shadows of the corridor that neither felt the need to hurry away from the other. Instead they basked in the shred of peace and quiet they had been granted, even out here in the abandoned hall.


	16. The Fortune Teller

John leaned against the sill of the large bay window that overlooked the expanse of the courtyard. His chin rested against the palm of his propped-up hand as he peered downward, his expression one of melancholy at best. He was in quite the shitty mood. So much so, in fact, that he hadn't even noticed how his arm had long begun to grow numb. The pins and needles that spread up to his wrist went ignored, just as the wood that bit painfully into his elbow. Instead, all he could seem to focus on was the scene playing out down below. That of Flint bidding farewell to his many guests before he was to depart on his days' trek into town. It went without saying that he granted the Guthrie woman a more generous, and a far more "showy", goodbye. One that consisted of a gentlemanly bow followed by a kiss atop her outstretched hand. It was only fitting, seeing that it was very likely that she would soon become his betrothed.

Yet the exchange was left wanting. Even from this vantage point John could clearly see the tension that stiffened Miss Guthrie's shoulders and robbed her of the grace and ease that usually accompanied her movements. It seemed that she was still rather agitated over Flint's personal jab the night before. Even if the "ghost's" accusation had been true, she was certainly not the only one who was heartless. For the sight, both of her angry countenance and how she was apparently giving Flint a hard time, was one that made a smirk pull at his lips.

It wasn't that John was upset with Flint, per say. If anything he was frustrated with himself. After all, they had both agreed that it would be wise to suspend their nightly visits until Thornfield Hall was no longer teeming with the lords and ladies of the Guthrie estate. Once they departed the two of them would be able to continue their trysts without the constant worry of being overheard and found out. Until then they would need to settle for stolen kisses and innocent touches. It was logical and reasonable, yes, but it was also maddening.

It wasn't until John had been left to return to his room hard and unsatisfied that he realized something: Since their alleged affair had begun nearly a week ago, this was the first night they had gone without succumbing to their baser urges. The first night both had kept their clothing completely intact, and the first that John had to handle himself so that he wouldn't go to bed with blue balls. However, now that he had gotten a proper taste of Flint's hot mouth and surprisingly nimble fingers, the touch of his own hand proved to be a paltry substitute at best. Not even his overzealous imagination could hope to hold a candle to the real thing. Not anymore.

So instead of waking up sore and satisfied as John so often had as of late, he did so feeling restless and agitated. As if there were a persistent itch beneath his skin; one that he couldn't quite scratch. A bit Begrudgingly, John lamented that he hadn't milked more promised favors out of Flint the night before. After all, surely abstaining from one another's touch was a feat that warranted its own reward. He certainly thought so. Especially since so much as fantasizing about an evening spent bent across Flint's lap would likely only further his frustrations at this point.

John watched the smirk that warmed Flint's features as he smacked the dirt from his hat before placing it atop his head. It was that same worn, raggedy old thing Flint had been wearing the first day they met. Something that was so comely it had caused him to think he was nothing more than a simple traveler. It was certainly not something befitting a lord and, based on the tight frown that pulled at Richard Guthrie's lips, that may be why he chose to wear it now. Flint didn't stand to ceremony, and he wasn't afraid to remind the pompous lord of that fact. It was definitely something that both he and Eleanor had in common.

John had gone the entire morning being careful to avoid crossing Flint's path. He had hoped that by doing so it would lessen the gaping hole left by the man's absence. Yet as he watched Flint mount his horse, a piercing whistle leaving his lips as he called for Teach, he realized just how futile his efforts had been. The moment he disappeared beyond the gate with that mutt in tow his heart sank deep within his chest. It was as if Flint had reached out and plucked it from between his very ribs. Bloody and beating, Flint held it in his hands and with an ever-tightening grip. And as he left him now, so too did that piece of him he had never paid much mind before.

* * *

 

"Are you alright, Monsieur Silver?"

The lilt of Abigail's voice cut through the silence that had fallen over the schoolroom for the past hour. Even so, it took John a few moments to fully shake himself from the slew of thoughts that had overtaken his mind. Several more would come to pass before he realized that she was still awaiting an answer to her question.

John's chin dipped slightly in embarrassment before he cleared his throat. "Yes," he finally assured her, hoping she wouldn't be able to see through his thin lie. "Yes, I'm fine. Just tired, is all."

"Did the ghost keep you awake?"

At this John could only chuckle. "No.. Not exactly. Now enough questions," he chastised. "You're supposed to be practicing your writing, remember?"

While Miss Abigail heeded his instructions like the devout pupil she was, she did make a point of sticking out her lower lip as she did so. An impressive pout if there ever was one. Just as she was returning to her schoolwork --and he to his thoughts of Flint and the unspoken mysteries that surrounded him--, a noise could be heard from outside. That of horseshoes clopping against the cobblestones --only that couldn't be right... Flint wasn't due to return until sometime this evening and it was hardly even past noon. Abigail had already leapt up from her seat and was scampering towards the window when his next words gave her pause.

"Miss Abigail..."

Somehow the girl managed to stick out her lower lip even further than before. Combined with her drawn brows and large doe eyes, it was a rather pitiful sight. Still, John managed to roll his eyes. Ms. Mapleton may bend beneath the weight of such a look without contest, but he was not so easily swayed.

"You said we could finish our lessons when Monsieur Flint returned," she reminded him.

Damnit, she was right.

With a sigh John offered a nod before closing the unread book that rested across his lap. "Very well," he relented. They had been working quite hard as of late and Abigail was continuing to make great strides. Surely There'd be no harm in concluding the day's lesson a little early.

Once Abigail reached the window her expression fell to one of disappointment. "Oh..." she murmured. "It isn't Monsieur Flint at all.."

John's brow piqued in curiosity. Setting the book aside, he made his own way over to the window so that he could get a better look. Sure enough, it was not Flint and his black mare that made their way across the courtyard, but a small horse-drawn buggy. The person that climbed out of it not moments later was just as unfamiliar. It was a rather pale-looking man with short gray-spattered hair and scruff to match. Based on his clothing, he was yet another man of wealth.

"I wonder who that is," Abigail mused.

John's lips pressed into a firm line. Even from up here he could clearly see the way those dark eyes darted over the estate, and the way those lips curled in a dangerous smile as he was greeted by the butler. John felt that he had a fairly good sense of reading people, and he didn't trust this man one bit. The mere sight of him made his stomach churn, and it only further solidified the fact that Flint wasn't here.

"So do I..."

* * *

 

The man turned out to be a Lord Peter Ashe. According to the hushed discussion John took great care to overhear, he was a Frenchman that had become acquainted with Flint during his travels through the West Indies. As to the exact reason behind his visit, that remained unknown. While Abigail had already latched herself to his side, so excited was she to finally have someone to talk with about her homeland, John had no intention of making an introduction. Not until Flint returned and he could get a better grasp of who he was. Until then he would stay silent, keep Abigail within his line of sight, and ensure that she didn't cause too much trouble. Unfortunately, that required his presence within the drawing room. He had hoped to spend the day free of this room and the pompous individuals within it, but alas-- At the very least, it provided ample opportunity for him to improve his skills at blocking out their incessant chatter. And this time Flint wasn't here to test the limits of his self-discipline and the control over his wandering thoughts.

The hours passed by at a grueling pace. Richard Guthrie and the other men argued over "blood" and politics while the women talked quietly amongst themselves. A good portion of it revolved around the stranger and his sudden and unexpected arrival. A trivial topic if there ever was one, considering it was little more than petty gossip and blind assumptions. The only comfort was that by all appearances, Eleanor was just as bored as he. At least until the butler, Vincent, entered the room looking quite concerned and wringing his hands.

"Oh dear..." the man murmured with furrowed brows. It appeared that with the master of the house away, he was unsure of who to report to. Fortunately, Eleanor seemed more than comfortable to fulfill that role, if only temporarily.

"What is it?" Eleanor asked. She rose from her seat as she spoke, apparently all too happy to take advantage of the distraction.

"There's a man out at the roadside," he managed after a moment. "Scruffy-looking fellow, says he's a fortune teller.."

"Well sick the hounds on him," Richard Guthrie snapped.

"No," Eleanor stepped in. "Don't." When all the eyes in the room turned to her she offered a faint shrug of her shoulder. "I'm sure there are plenty of people hear that would like to have their fortunes told." Whether or not that was the case, to John it seemed that she was merely putting her foot down in order to get under her father's skin. Something John fully supported.

At this Richard Guthrie scoffed. "Letting such a man into the estate...! What would Mr. Flint say?" he demanded.

Eleanor smirked smugly, the green of her eyes shining. "Well, it doesn't much matter," she started matter-of-factly. "After all, Mr. Flint isn't here, is he?"

* * *

 

It went without saying that Eleanor was the first to "take the plunge" in this little adventure, as it were. While John seriously doubted that such a pragmatic woman could actually believe in the merits of fortune-telling, he didn't at all blame her for using it as an excuse to leave the room. In fact, a part of him wished to do the same. He had long grown tired of the usual droll, even if he wasn't actually listening. A snide comment here, a thinly veiled insult there, and rumors interspersed throughout. Even this Peter Ashe proved rather dull, as he and Abigail remained locked in their own conversations of Paris and France as a whole. And by "conversation", he mostly meant Lord Ashe regaling her with tales of his travels and business across the country. All the while, Abigail clung to every word with nothing but awe in her eyes.

John's own gaze flicked upward when the door to the drawing room creaked open. The sight that greeted him was enough to cause his brow to raise in curiosity. It was Eleanor returning from the fortune teller, but based on the state she was in, it was not a simple palm-reading that she had been engaged in. While it may have been a bit too subtle for the other's to possibly notice, he had quite a well-trained eye. So he saw that locks of golden hair that had fallen free from the bun set atop her head. He saw the faint flush in her cheeks and the plumpness of her lower lip, and the way her eyes were hooded by a heady black. Even as she returned to her seat on the couch she worked to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt.

"Good fortune?" John inquired softly as she passed. He was offered a faint smirk in ways of an actual answer. This only spurred his own mixture of confusion and curiosity. He was hardly one to preach about promiscuity, but still... Surely there was more to the story, something he couldn't yet see. As the afternoon went on, his curiosity only burned brighter. Especially after the other guests returned to the room one by one, their visits with this fortune teller proving far less appealing than Eleanor's. After Richard Guthrie returned with a hard expression and a slew of curses leaving his mouth, he felt a hand on his shoulder. When John glanced up it was Vincent.

"I do apologize, Mr. Silver," Vincent excused as he led him down the steps towards the cellar. "The man all but refuses to leave until he's seen everyone in the house..."

"Not necessary," John assured him. In all honesty he was grateful for the opportunity to see this man himself. Perhaps it would serve to fill in some missing pieces.

"Do you want me to wait out here..?"

"No, I'll be fine," John chuckled. "I'm not afraid of him, or whatever 'future' he may see for me."

The man offered a curt nod before going on his way. Despite his own words, John swallowed lightly before turning the knob and slipping into the cellar.

The room was a cluttered mess of wooden crates and unwanted furniture. The few sconces that lined the walls burned dimly, the flickering light casting thick shadows that seemed to bounce and twist with every breath. A round table was set in the corner, and sitting right behind it with his boots propped on the edge was the self-proclaimed fortune teller. He was a man around Flint's age with sun-tanned skin and long, mussed brown hair. Even with it partially tied back John could see the small braids and teased locks that were interspersed throughout. The eyes that rested on him felt unusually heavy as he took a drag from a cigar.

When John didn't offer any form of greeting the man smirked. "Well?" he asked. His voice was low and grating as he gestured towards the empty chair across from him.

Wordlessly John stepped forward, his eyes continuing to rake over the man as he settled into the seat offered him. The moment he did the man extended a hand. "Vane," he offered.

Though John was still a bit weary, he reached out to shake his hand nonetheless. Yet Vane seemed less than interested in an actual introduction, for he took the opportunity to grab his wrist instead. Immediately John tried to pull back only for those fingers to tighten their grip.

"Easy..." the man gruffed as he turned his palm up towards the ceiling. "John Silver, is it?"

"If you expect me to be impressed with something as common as my name, then you are sadly mistaken," John offered thickly.

Vane chuckled. He took a final drag from the cigar before putting it out against the tabletop. Now that his other hand was free, he traced his pointer finger along one of the lines creasing his palm.

"Orphaned at a young age by family still living, I see..."

Though John managed to at least relax somewhat in his seat, his hardened features didn't lessen. "Also common knowledge," John pointed out. "You're telling me things any of the servantats here could have told you."

"Perhaps something more personal, then?" Vane proposed, his eyes dark as he glanced upwards. "Such as the ways of the heart?"

At this John's countenance immediately faltered. _James..._

Vane smirked smugly before slowly tracing down another line in his palm. "You're a rather distrusting young man, but there is one here that has worn down your walls, isn't there? Someone that you confide in? Perhaps someone you have even given your heart to..."

John's mouth opened and closed wordlessly before he finally managed to regain control over his useless tongue. "I don't know what you're talking about," he finally managed. It sounded pitiful even to his own ears.

"Oh, I think you do."

John's eyes twisted shut as he released a steadying breath. It was astounding how those few words could have completely thrown him off balance, and yet they had. His mind was a turbulent mess of unending questions of _who_ and _how?_ How could this man know of his feelings for Flint? Idelle and Max would never be so reckless as to confide in this with a stranger, and Eleanor had no reason to.

Just as he was beginning to weave his own tapestry of theories, there it was. That faint yet sickeningly sweet scent of a cigar. Not the putrid ones this man had just put out, but the ones whose smoke often clung to Flint's clothing. Blue eyes snapped open as he looked over towards the wooden partition that closed off a corner of the room. Sure enough, he could just make out the faint trail of smoke that curled up towards the ceiling. His suspisions were only confirmed when he caught sight of that familiar black tail. Teach.

"You have an abhorrent sense of humor, you know that?" John accused angrily.

Vane's smirk widened as he released his wrist. A short, soft whistle rose from that side of the room and moments later Teach was came rushing towards him, tail wagging. John scratched behind the mutt's ears as he rested his head atop his knee. When Flint finally stepped out from behind the partition, cigar still in hand, he was met with a glare.

"You're an arse," John continued. "And you lied about having to go into town, didn't you? All for this rouse of yours?"

"Not at all," Flint argued, apparently electing to ignore the insult. "I did have to go into town on business, and once that was concluded I happened across Charles."

"And what is he, some friend of yours?"

Vane snorted.

"More like... colleagues," Flint finally answered.

"Speaking of which, I believe you owe me some coin," Vane pressed.

John gave an exasperated shake of his head. "You hired him to trick these people?"

"No," Vane chortled. "He merely bet me fifty pounds that I wouldn't be able to convince them I was a fortune teller."

"Unbelievable..."

"Truthfully," Flint began, apparently only now beginning to realize John's anger, "I initially brought him here for Eleanor."

John scoffed. Truly, he couldn't believe this. "You brought someone here so that your soon-to-be betrothed could get a quick fuck?"

Flint and Vane exchanged a look. "If you wish to state it so uneloquently, then I suppose," Flint finally reasoned. "Though I would have to say it was more in ways of an apology for angering her last night."

"I thought it was a fine gesture," Vane spoke up.

After a moment of tense silence Flint sighed. "Would you give us the room, if you please?" Though Vane nodded, it wasn't until a bag of coins was dropped into his outstretched palm that he took his leave.

The moment the door creaked shut John gave another exasperated shake of his head. "You're an ass," he repeated.

"I'm sorry," Flint finally relented, his lips tugging downward in a frown. "I had to know how you felt about me..."

"How could you not have known?!" John countered, his tone harsh. "And why couldn't have you just asked like any sane person?" By now John was thoroughly lost to his anger and he pushed Teach off his lap so that he could stand. "What's more, how could you tell him, a fucking stranger, about my feelings for you?! About my past?!"

"John."

John didn't realize that Flint had drawn close until a hand settled on his shoulder, the other tipping his chin upwards. The look of genuine anguish in those green eyes was enough to trap any further accusations before they left his tongue.

"I didn't share any of that with him," Flint promised him, his tone careful. "Like you said, that information was known to any of the servants here. As for me, well... I may have confided that you harbored feelings for someone here, but I never specified who.."

John released a shaken breath. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he thought over his next words.

"It was still a shitty trick," John finally managed.

Flint's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. "I know, John," he murmured, his thumb grazing over his cheek. "And I am genuinely sorry."

Though John huffed at his words, he couldn't help but lean into the warm touch of his hand.

"I care for you, John," Flint continued, whispering the words against the crown of his head. "I had to know if you felt the same. Granted, I certainly went about it the wrong way... Please forgive me."

John's eyes fell closed as he weighed the merit of his apology. "You really are an ass..." he finally muttered.

Flint chuckled weakly against his hair. "I promise that I'll make it up to you."

"Oh, you're going to be making up for a lot of things," John assured him with a wry smile. Moments later their lips touched in a slow kiss, soft and chaste and just as genuine as the rest of his apology. When they eventually broke away John leaned his forehead against the man's collarbone.

"I assume you're also responsible for the man that showed up before you?"

At this Flint pulled away far enough so that he could look into his eyes. "What man?" he questioned, his expression riddled with confusion.

"Uhm, a lord named Peter Ashe... He said he was an acquaintance of yours."

Flint's countenance faltered, giving way to that distraut expression he had witnessed just the other night, and even before that when he spoke of the HHamiltons.

"I see," Flint finally managed. He took a few moments to compose himself before pressing a kiss to John's forehead. "I see..."

"James," John murmured, speaking just loudly enough to capture the other man's attention. "Who is he..?"

Flint offered a small shake of his head. "A man from my past that I would sooner leave behind me..." After another moment he closed his eyes. "If only those people knew of the things I have done, how quickly they would cast me out, toss me aside."

"James..." Once more the man was losing himself in his own darkness, and it terrified him.

"If they found out," Flint continued. "My sins, my failures... If they came to light and I was thrown to the streets with nothing but my name, would you still have me?" Before John could even open his mouth Flint cut him off with a shake of his head. "No... No, don't answer that." Another kiss was placed against his forehead, the gesture quickly followed by the soft utterance of, "Come along, John.."

Whatever uncertainty Flint may have felt at the prospect of facing this part of his past, any trace of it had disappeared by the time they returned to the drawing room. Flint's features had stolen away into that practiced mask, and the moment he saw Peter Ashe a convincing smile spread across his face. They embraced each other warmly and regarded each other as if they were longtime friends.

The display only served to further John's confusion over who this man was and what ties they shared, both in Flint's shrouded past and here in the present. And John would seek these answers from him, only not tonight. This day had been trying enough and it had worn heavily on him. So once the light of the sconces had been snuffed out and the rest of the guests had retired to bed, the two of them shared a gentle kiss before bidding the other goodnight.

With a heavy heart and a cluttered mind John returned to his bedchamber. He didn't even waste time reading or sketching, as he was usually prone to do, before falling into bed. This day had been a mess in its entirety. Though Flint surely hadn't meant any malice by it, he had still tricked him. To have someone go behind his back in such a way, and him no less... It caused an ache to form within his chest. He forgave Flint; he had the moment those eyes peered down at him, heavy with the realization of what he had done. John would always forgive him, no matter what it was, but that didn't lessen the heavy weight on his heart. He could only hope that in time it would come to pass.

John didn't allow himself to ponder these things for too long. Yet his sleep was not a peaceful one, for only a few hours had passed before he awoke to the sound of a blood-curdling scream.


	17. Into the Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such a long time coming, and I sincerely apologize for the delay. xx Real life, ugh.
> 
> Hopefully it was worth the wait. <3

John awoke with a start. With the way the breath had been swept from his lungs, it was as if he himself had been the one to unleash that bloodcurdling scream. Yet that wasn't the case. While reminiscent of his own cries, ones inspired by cruel childhood punishments spent locked away in the Red Room, it was also strikingly different. It was not one born of blinding fear, no, but was instead a scream wrought with pain. And with how very vivid it was, there was no possibility that it had been a conjuring of his own imagination. It was real. A horrid, tortured sound; one thats echo seemed to reverberate throughout his entire body before sinking into his very bones. Even now it shook him to the core, his heart all but trying to hammer its way free from the confines of his chest. 

But despite that, despite the terror that gripped him like an iron fist, only one thought came to mind: _Flint._

Memories of burning drapes and acrid smoke flitted through his mind as John scrambled out of bed, his own instincts of self-preservation once again pushed to the wayside. While that cry hadn't sounded like it belonged to Flint, nor to anyone else he would readily recognize, that did very little to ease his mind. No matter who it was --or perhaps _what_ it was--, John couldn't shake the feeling of dread that sank low in his gut. The one that suggested that the master of the house was somehow involved in all this, in one way or another.

John didn't bother changing out of his night clothes before heading down the corridor to investigate. It would only be a waste of time, and he was certain the situation at hand would be enough to excuse his rumpled appearance. Apparently he was not alone in this way of thinking, for when he entered the main hall he was greeted by a sea of frills and flowing nightgowns. Max and that redheaded girl, Anne, stood off to the side of the crowd that had gathered, both exchanging meaningful looks. Were it not for the current circumstances he likely would have found amusement in how disheveled they both appeared --and clearly from something other than sleep. However there were far more pressing matters, and so his attention promptly returned to the anxious chatter that filled the hall.

Not only had the servants seen it fit to wander from their chambers, but so too had the lords and ladies of the Guthrie estate. Eleanor Guthrie stood at the center of it all, those blond tresses falling free of its usual bun as she attempted to quell the panic. Unfortunately it appeared to be a fruitless effort at best, as whatever comfort she sought to offer couldn't even be heard beneath the outpouring of questions and theories.

"What was that noise?!" piped a particularly wide-eyed woman.

"It was a scream, surely!" said another, rather stern woman he had previously overheard someone identify as Ms. Hudson. "I just know it!"

"Someone must be hurt..!"

"Or killed--!"

"Enough!" This time Eleanor's voice had risen to a near shout, her patience having completely disappeared in that moment. The abruptness of it left everyone speechless. "Now," Eleanor continued, swiping a stray lock of hair from her face. "I understand your concern, I do, but--"

"But Miss--"

"I am still talking," Eleanor snapped, effectively silencing whatever fool sought to interrupt her.

"The hell is going on here?" This time the speaker was met without challenge, for the voice that cut through the room was unmistakable in its authority. Flint's. Everyone within earshot was rendered still and silent almost immediately. All except for Eleanor, of course.

Though it took her a moment, Eleanor finally managed to regain her voice. "There was a scream."

"A scream?" Flint asked, the corner of his mouth teasing upwards in a smirk. "I leave you lot alone for one day on business, and you've already gotten yourselves worked up with frivolous ghost stories."

"This wasn't something we all just imagined," Eleanor countered, albeit a bit defensively.

Flint's hands clasped behind his back as he offered up a shrug. "So someone had a bad dream," he reasoned. "A nightmare. Your imaginations are all just running wild, fueled by your visits with that fortune teller and too much grouse at dinner."

Eleanor shifted her stance, her gaze moving over the others' concerned expressions before falling back on Flint. "You're sure that everything is fine?" she pressed. "That there's no danger?"

It was then that something caught John's eye. He had always been quite adept at noticing the finer details that often went unseen by others, and right now was certainly no exception. Several dark spots had come to stain the cobblestones right behind where Flint was standing. Suddenly John was transported back to the Red Room, back to those nightmares where he would see that same color saturating the front of his uncle's collar. When another drop landed against the stone John blinked, his eyes flicking upwards to see a trail of crimson dripping down Flint's wrist. _He was bleeding_.

"As I said, there is no cause to worry," Flint assured them all. As he spoke John drew closer, taking full advantage of the distraction --as well as his own easily dismiss-able presence-- to slink behind him and stand over the blood-spots so that they would remain unnoticed.

"But just to be safe," Flint added, extending his other hand towards Eleanor, "I shall escort you back to your quarters personally. Now the rest of you, back to bed!"

The hall filled with the sound of shuffling footsteps as nobles and servants alike heeded his words and began to disperse. Just as Flint was guiding Miss Guthrie back out to the corridor those green eyes caught his own. Though they held his gaze for but a moment, John saw the silent entreaty churning within those depths. One that was answered with a faint nod.

The moment Flint disappeared down the hall with the others John released a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. Quickly he dropped down to his knees, wresting a handkerchief from his pocket and wetting the corner so that he could wipe the blood up from the floor. Only when he was satisfied that there wouldn't be a trace left to be found did he stop. He sat back on his heels, crumpling the cloth into a tight ball as he tried to calm his mess of thoughts.

So he had been right about Flint's involvement... God, how he'd wished to have been proven wrong, just this once. Unfortunately he was never quite so lucky. What's more, whatever kind of trouble Flint had found himself ensnared in this time, he once again required his help. While anyone else would have enough sense to worry for their own sake, for Flint was steadily beginning to coax him down a dangerous and uncertain path, his affections had blinded him. It would be damn near foolish to say that even in this moment John's only concern was Flint; in which case he was the biggest fool there was.

_If only those people knew of the things I have done, how quickly they would cast me out, toss me aside._

John recounted those words spoken to him not a day past. So grim and burdened with what he could only describe as anguish. And offered the moment Flint had come to learn of their strange visitor, Lord Peter Ashe. It was then that John realized that among the sea of familiar faces that had filled the hall mere moments ago, his was the only one missing. He would have remembered spotting such a face; one with weasel-like features that had immediately drawn his mistrust. It seemed that his suspicions were not without merit, for his absence suggested that he, too, were mixed up in all this. Perhaps he had been the one to unleash that terrible cry. If that were true, the only question that remained was _why?_ Not only in regards to the scream or what torture it was that had given birth to it, but why _Flint_ was the one bleeding. 

In either case, John sensed he would have his answers in the hours to come. Not only to these pertinent questions, but to the several others that had begun to amass during his time here. Of the tower claimed to be long abandoned despite the glimmer of candlelight in the darkened window, and the crimson scarf that could sometimes be spotted billowing in the wind. Of the chamber whose occupant remained shrouded in mystery, hidden behind locked doors and flawed yet persistent lies. Despite the danger that clearly surrounded it all, he cared not for the implications. Whatever was to come, he would face it, even if it were only to guard Flint from further harm.

These were the thoughts that pervaded John's mind as he waited for Flint to come calling for him, just as that telling nod had assured him that he would. Though it was a wait far shorter than expected, John couldn't help but be grateful for that. It helped keep him from wallowing in the darkness that forever crept at the edge or his mind --at least for too long. In fact, he had only just changed into a more fitting pair of clothes when that knock sounded at the door. And then there Flint was, standing tall with a harrowing expression, its influence only matched by the stout resolution of his gaze.

"Are you hurt?" John couldn't help but as.

Flint gave a firm shake of his head before offering up a question of his own. "Are you ready?"

Quickly John nodded. Somehow, it was all too easy to ignore the way the man's entire demeanor sent the hair at the back of his neck standing on end.

Flint nodded in turn, those darkened eyes flicking downward for just a moment before recapturing his gaze. "Come then, quickly now," he instructed. Just as John stepped forward that hand came down to grip his forearm. Nothing too tight, certainly, but enough to convey his own unease. "And _quietly_."

John didn't have the time to answer, nor to ask any more questions of his own, before Flint disappeared back through the open doorway, seemingly swallowed up whole by the shadows. Wordlessly, and without a breadth of hesitation, John followed suit. He stuck close to Flint's heels as they made their way down the corridor, their path guided solely by the soft flicker of the candle held tight in Flint's grasp. The only sound was that of their footsteps against the cobblestones, their very breath almost weary of breaking the fragile silence.

Despite the darkness that encircled them, John knew exactly where they were headed. After all, this mysterious corridor haunted his dreams almost every night. Even so, he couldn't help the way his breath stuttered in his chest when they reached that peculiar door. The one that stood at the base of that lone tower, forever locked in order to keep its secrets far from prying eyes. Now, however, it seemed he was to finally learn what --or perhaps who-- lay hidden away.

John watched as Flint withdrew a lash of keys from his belt and proceeded to open not one, but two locks upon the door. Just as that second thunk echoed down the hall, something seemed to occur to Flint. With the key still resting in the lock he asked, "You don't faint at the sight of blood, do you?"

John's eyebrows lifted just a fraction. "Uh... no?"

Flint studied his expression as he seemed to consider his words. He must have been satisfied by whatever he had been searching for, for a moment later he gave a curt nod. The door was pulled open with an insufferable creak, one that had John wondering how such a sound could possibly have gone unnoticed for so long, before Flint ushered him along. The stairwell was cramped, the light of the candle just barely enough to illuminate the steps that wound upwards, higher and higher.

So tight was the channel that when Flint inevitably came to a halt John couldn't keep from stumbling right into his back. The door they came to now was even more daunting than the one before it, and as Flint shouldered it open --so heavy and old was it-- John couldn't help but take hold of his breath.

The grating of the door and of the many locks sliding back into place went ignored as John took in his surroundings. The room was small yet carried the sense of being lived in, despite the few pieces of furniture that filled the space. The walls were void of any decoration and what few may have existed now lay broken on the floor. There was an unhinged music box and a shattered vase, its flowers having been torn to shreds with such a rage that the petals were now indecipherable from shards of pottery and glass. A small table had been overturned as well, its leg broken and its contents strewn about.

But what truly captured John's attention was the sight found at the center of the room. There, laying upon a couch with plush crimson cushions --perhaps the only furnishing to have escaped unscathed, save for a few tears in the upholstery--, was none other than one Lord Peter Ashe. Not only that, but the man was bleeding steadily from a wound to the chest.

John swallowed thickly as he stepped forward. Lord Ashe --or rather the husk he had been reduced to-- lay almost completely still. The only movement was the shallow rise and fall of his chest that came with every breath. Not only that, but he shared the same ashen complexion as the stone statues that so often stood over forgotten graves. Not an angel, at least not in this case, but perhaps a devil. Still, his current state was understandable as the front of his shirt was wet with blood, darkening the fabric from his collarbone to where it was still tucked into his trousers.

"John."

John tore his eyes away from the injured man only for Flint to usher him closer still. 

"The wound there on his chest--" Flint continued as he began to rummage around in search of something. "I need you to stay here and staunch the blood while I send for Howell."

A wad of cloth was promptly shoved into his hand and, without question, John did as instructed. However, he did take a moment to better inspect the wound. It was deep, extending down to the tissue, and was almost circular in shape. He would have looked closer were it not for the hand that suddenly gripped his shoulder. The need to satisfy his curiosity would have to wait, and so he set to applying enough pressure to keep the blood at bay.

"One more thing, John," Flint spoke, his tone one if warning. "Do not speak to him, and do not listen to a thing he says. Understood?"

John nodded and, satisfied, Flint released his shoulder. Yet it seemed he was not through, for he proceeded to roughly grab Peter Ashe by the front of his shirt, lifting him just a bit.

"And you," Flint threatened through clenched teeth, " _Not. A. Word_." He didn't bother waiting for a response before shoving him back against the cushions.

John couldn't help the slight shiver that ran down his spine. Flint's words, his demeanor... It was as if he were a different person. He had witnessed his anger many times before, but this... This was different. Frightening, even. So much so that he hardly heard Flint's promise that he would try to return soon. The sound of the door soon followed, and then he was alone.

John exhaled slowly as he tried to calm his racing heart. He wasn't certain why he was so surprised that this revelation, that finally witnessing the room behind those locked doors, had raised more questions than answers. After all, that always seemed to be the case whenever Flint was involved. Only now those concerns were beginning to reach a tipping point. Why was Lord Ashe up here in the first place? Who had harmed him, and why? Was it the "ghost" thought to usually reside up here? If so, where had they disappeared to? And why had all civility between Flint and this mysterious stranger suddenly disappeared? 

Several possible answers to these questions flitted through John's mind as he rested back on his heels. _Maybe, just maybe.._. Whatever theory had begun to bud halted in its tracks. Now that he was alone --more or less, anyway--, he was finally able to appreciate the silence. Or rather, take note of the muted sound that broke it. Soft, rhythmic ticking... A clock?

While keeping the cloth pressed tight against Ashe's chest, John allowed his gaze to travel about the room to find the source responsible. He saw torn drapes and discarded books, even a second door, but no clock. Yet just as John began to shift back into a more comfortable position, his knee bumped against something small. There, hidden just below the edge of the couch, lay a pocket watch.

Gingerly, John picked it up so that he could better inspect it. Despite the prominent crack in the face it seemed to be in perfect working order, ticking softly and without a single skip. It was a rather ornate thing; finely crafted and was obviously an heirloom of great value. Absentmindedly, he turned it over in his palm. It was then that something caught his eye. Though it was a small detail, something that anyone else might have overlooked, to him its significance went without question. There, inscribed along the back in a small, elegant script, was the name _Alfred Hamilton_.

John's brow furrowed. He recognized this pocket watch from earlier this evening when a particular guest had checked in on the time, eager for Flint's return. That guest had been Lord Ashe. He must have dropped it when he was attacked. But why...? Alfred Hamilton... that was the father of Thomas, was it not? Flint's truest love. Alfred had been his judge, his killer... Not just his, but Miranda's as well. Why would Ashe be in possession of such a token?

_Thud._

John's eyes snapped upwards. Whatever hope existed that the sound was unremarkable --caused by something as menial as a book falling over, perhaps-- was snuffed out by the scraping that soon followed. It was an ominous noise, slow and grating, and was more than enough to raise gooseflesh along his skin. Not because of the disturbance itself, but rather the obscure doorway from which it arose. It was smaller than the others and rather plain, foregoing those impressive bolts and latches for a lone keyhole below the knob. Even so, it didn't make it any less threatening. Still, it was far from enough to snuff out his curiosity.

Without another thought John slipped the pocket watch into the side of his trousers. Thievery aside, it was the safest place for it for the time being. As for Ashe, he barely cast a glance in the man's direction before drawing away from his side.The bleeding had already lessened significantly, and surely he would be able to manage without him for a spell. Besides, the scratching that continued beyond the door was enough to lure any man with good enough sense to investigate.

Or so his naivety would have him believe.

Whatever was holed up in there, be it ghost, man, or beast... It was the missing piece to all of John's questions. Not only to those surrounding this tower and Flint's mysterious past, but of who had tried to murder Flint in his very bed, and --very likely, at least-- who was responsible for attacking Peter Ashe.

It went without saying that John moved forward with the upmost caution. He was conscious of every creaking floorboard, of every breath that came too harshly. Yet his efforts to approach unannounced were seemingly for naught, for the moment he was within reach of the doorway the scraping had given way to silence. Something that only served to heighten his curiosity.

Slowly John reached out to test the knob. He hesitated for just a moment, his fingers hovering and his breath stealing away inside his chest, before he finally found his resolve. It turned but a fraction. _Locked_. He released a breath. Whether it was from relief or disappointment, he wasn't certain. Of course it was locked. It would have been daft to expect otherwise. And yet... he couldn't simply leave it at that. He wouldn't. And so he knelt down on his hands and knees, intent to see what could be deciphered through the crack beneath the door.

The darkness that met him was unsurprising. But surely.... John squinted, his cheek pressing firm against the floorboards as he tried to make out something, _anything._ It was then that he saw it: a flash of movement. It was brief and so very slight, but it was there. Something was in there. The reality of it made his eyes widen, his pulse quickening as he continued to peer into the darkness, desperate to catch another glimpse of whatever it was.

But as the next several moments passed by, he saw nothing more.

John swallowed tightly. His stubbornness made all the stronger, he climbed up onto his knees so that he could try to peek through the keyhole. Hopefully luck would be on his side and he would be able to make something out. Yet as he leaned in he did so almost wearily, taking care to hold his very breath lest he make a sound that would give himself away. He gripped the edge of the doorframe to keep himself steady as he moved closer still. His eyelashes brushed against the metal, his other eye squeezed shut in the hope that it would help him piece together the shadows. 

Just as a frown was beginning to form at his apparent failure, a scream tore through the room. It was not unlike the one that had roused him --as well as everyone else within the estate-- not hours earlier. A raw, distraught thing. Combined with the loud bang that quickly followed against the door, it was more then enough to send John toppling back over his heels.

_"Fuck..!"_

John's shoulderblades struck against the end of the couch. So overcome with fear was he that he'd managed to scramble across the length of the room in a blink of an eye. Still, the space that now existed between he and the door --and the monster behind it-- was of little comfort. The scream may have cut itself short, along with the rest of the commotion, but whatever beast existed remained restless, the knob shaking almost violently against the lock. John's only comfort was that it held fast, and so the door remained firmly shut.

Eventually, however, the movement slowed, the doorknob jiggling faintly before tapering off completely. Still, John's heart continued to hammer away within his chest. It didn't matter that the room had once again fallen into silence, broken only by Peter Ashe's rhythmic breathing. It didn't matter that the door now went undisturbed, whoever --or whatever-- it was hidden away back there finally spent. All that mattered was that John's hunch had been correct, and that Flint was irrevocably involved in something sinister, something that posed a threat not only to him, but to himself. What's more, _it meant that Flint was_ _continuing to hide something from him... Even now._

John wasn't certain how much time had passed before his heart rate returned to its regular rhythm. How long until the cogs within his mind began to churn once more, finally broken free from the fear that had gripped him. How long until Flint finally returned to him...

It was surreal, the events that happened next. It was as if he were looking up through the rippling surface of a pond, its water murky, deafening any sound and clouding his vision. Though he was very much present he was also severely detached, lost to the throes of the innumerable questions and theories that pervaded his mind. John remembered the way his gaze had snapped upward when Flint came through the doorway, doctor Howell in tow. He remembered getting shooed out of the way so that he could better inspect Ashe's wound. Remembered the hushed murmurings of, _"These appear to be bite marks... Human in nature"_ and, shortly after, _"...I know."_

Through all of this John stood watch over that locked door. Though these snippets of conversation were carefully cataloged within his mind, something set aside so that he could better ponder over them later, his gaze never faltered. He watched, waiting --daring, even-- for that knob to move. For the door to shake, and for the room once again be filled with the sound of a ghost trying to break free. Yet it didn't come to pass.

Outside the sky was just beginning to transform from the approaching daybreak. Pale blues and soft oranges kissed the horizon, the sight a rather soothing one considering the night he had just endured. Still, it was not yet over as the trio moved down the grassy hillside. Ashe, his chest now properly bandaged and his skin a few shades closer to a living complexion, was taken to a carriage waiting at the roadside, an arm slung over each Flint's and Howell's shoulder.

John hung back as the other two got him situated, not missing the way Flint leaned in to whisper some secret instruction to Howell, yet too far away to possibly make it out. Flint gave the driver his own final sendoff, followed by two raps against the door, and then the carriage was on it's way. John watched it go until it disappeared around the bend, his fingers ghosting over the pocketwatch still hidden away within his pocket.

Beside him Flint sighed audibly, but not before dragging a hand over his face to rub at his eyes. "What a fucking night," he mumbled. "Finally it's all settled."

At this John bristled. _"Settled?"_ he couldn't help but mirror back. "A man was brutally attacked by that _thing_ up there, and now it's _settled_?!"

Those words sent Flint's expression melding into a stony mask. The same one he wore back when they had first met. Cold, harsh, and unforgiving.

"Whatever Ashe told you--"

"He didn't tell me a thing," John snapped, ignoring the way Flint's lip curled upward at being interrupted. "He didn't have to! I was there when that thing tried to break through the door!" John stopped, his breath heaving from his chest as his eyes moved over Flint's face, trying to find something, _anything._ "I was frightened," he finally admitted.

At this Flint's mask finally broke. His gaze fell, the muscle in his cheek jumping as he swallowed down whatever lies he sought to spoke next. "I'm sorry." The words were soft as they fell from Flint's lips, gentle. "I'm sorry that you were fearful. But you're safe now."

John only shook his head. "What are you hiding from me?" he challenged with an exasperated sigh.

"John.."

"No, no more excuses," John argued. "Just answer me!"

_"John."_

This time Flint's tone possessed a quality it hadn't quite before. It was almost unrecognizable coming from such a person, but was something John himself had experienced time and time again: Desperation. It was enough to make John quiet, if only long enough to hear his next words.

 _"Trust me."_ Flint's eyes were pleading, the rest of his features laid bare. He was tired, weary.

John swallowed. _I don't know if I can._ Though John didn't dare breathe the words aloud the truth of it must have been written across his face, for Flint's own expression fell. Still, though, Flint drew forward, his thumb trailing along his cheek before those lips pressed against his forehead in a tender kiss. They lingered there, so soft and warm, and so ultimately unconcerned of where they stood. And then, suddenly, they were gone, and John was left to watch as Flint retreated up the path to the shadow that was Thornfield Hall.

That was the last encounter John had with Flint in the passing days. It was as if each had taken great care to keep themselves scarce, if only to avoid further heartache. Flint was off ensuring that his overbearing guests remained entertained and blissfully unaware, while simultaneously continuing to forge plans with Eleanor Guthrie, and John-- Well, John did what he always had when seeking to drive Flint from his thoughts, and that was throw himself into his work. He focused on his lessons with Abigail, and what little free time he allowed himself was spent with his nose firmly shut in a book.

It was a rather miserable way to spend his days, for they now seemed so empty and hallow without Flint's companionship, but it was a pattern John was stubborn to adhere to. That is, until Max dropped a letter over the edge of his book. Whatever text he had chosen to engross himself in this time he couldn't quite say, as his mind found thoughts of Flint and that tower to be far more meaningful than the words strewn across the page. But right now, what was written upon this envelope was enough to capture his attention, for it was addressed from Gateshead Hall.

* * *

"A letter?"

"Yes."

"From Gateshead Hall?"

"Yes."

Flint's brow furrowed noticeably. He glanced over at Eleanor then, his tilting towards the door before the request even left his lips. "Give us the room, if you please."

Though Eleanor gave a roll of her eyes, seemingly annoyed that whatever conversation they had been sharing was cut short, she conceeded nonetheless. Only when the door clicked shut behind her did Flint dare to speak once more.

"Gateshead..." Flint muttered the word beneath his breath, as if cursing the very name itself. "That's where you grew up, isn't it? Before your aunt cast you out like a stray?"

John felt his jaw tighten. "Yes, Sir."

 _"Sir."_ Flint practically spat the title before shaking his head angrily. "After the way she treated you, _why the fuck would you return?_ Is it only to get away from me?"

"Of course not!" John countered, his own countenance faltering. The thought alone was enough to send his blood simmering. "She's on her deathbed, I have to go!"

"And why is that?" Flint demanded, his gaze just as hard and searching as his tone.

John released a breath, his eyes shutting as he measured his next words carefully. "She may have been a terrible aunt," he finally settled on, "and perhaps even a worse person, but..." He wet his lips lightly, his teeth catching the inside of his bottom lip as he fought to keep his voice steady. "I need her to see that, despite that --despite all they put me through, she and the others--, that I remained unbroken by it. I need them _all_ to see that."

This time when John glanced upwards, he was met with nothing but keen understanding in those green depths. Flint paused, his knuckles dragging along the bottom of his chin as he drew towards the window. He seemed to be mulling over his own response, now.

"If you are to leave me..." Flint began with a sigh, "I insist that you use one of my coachmen for the journey. Lord knows when you'd get there otherwise."

John couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at the edge of his mouth. "Of course," he agreed.

Flint peered at him from over his shoulder. "And when is it that you think you will return to me? John?"

"As soon as I am able," John promised. As he spoke he felt that familiar tug within his chest, that aching warmth that wished only to send him straight into those arms.

Flint nodded slowly, his gaze dipping low. "Surely such a journey can wait until morning..?" he pondered then, his voice a bare whisper.

After a moment Flint glanced upwards once more. The mask that had hardened his features over the past week was now nowhere to be seen, replaced only by a torrid mess of emotions. Want, desire, vulnerability, guilt and heartache; they were all there, laid bare before his very eyes. And by god, was it so painfully beautiful. An expression that held within it a series of unspoken questions, all of which John sought to answer with the press of his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's Flint's fancy way of saying "I'll say goodbye to you in the morning [after having had sex with you]"

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me giddy. :)


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